THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 

LIBRARY 


VOLUME  22 
SCOTT-SOLON 


UNIVERSITY  EDITION 

THE  WARNER  LIBRARY 

IN  THIRTY  VOLUMES 

VOLS.  1-26 

THE    world's    best    LITERATURE 

VOL.  27 

THE    BOOK   OF    SONGS   AND   LYRICS 

VOL.  28 

THE    reader's    dictionary    OF   AUTHORS 

VOL.  29 

THE    reader's    DIGEST    OF    BOOKS 

VOL.  30 

THE    student's   COURSE    IN    LITERATURE 
GENERAL   INDEX 


w 


r\r\'T\  1 


SHAKESPEARE  AND  HIS  FRIENDS.  | 

Photogravure  from  a  painting  by  John  Faed.  I 

Beginning     at     the     left     of     the     picture,     the     persons     standing     are; — Sylvester  — 

Seldon  —  Beaumont  —  Raleigh    and    the    Earl    of    Southampton.      The    seated 

figures,    beginning    on    the    left,    represent: — Camden  —  the    Ear]    of 

Dorset  —  Fletcher  —  Bacon  —  Ben     Jonson  —  Daniel     Donne  ;  : 

—  Shakespeare — Sir     Robert    Cotton    and    Dekkei.  !i 

i  . 

ii 


UNIVERSITY  EDITION 

THE  WARNER  LIBRARY 

IN  THIRTY  VOLUMES 
VOLUME  22 


THE 

WORLD'S  BEST 

LITERATURE 

EDITORS 

JOHN  W.  CUNLIFFE 

ASHLEY  H.  THORNDIKE 

PROFESSORS  OF  ENGLISH  IN  COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY 

FOUNDED  BY 

CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 


NEW  YORK 

PRINTED  AT  THE  KNICKERBOCKER 

PRESS  FOR  THE  WARNER  LIBRARY  COMPANY 

TORONTO:  GLASGOW,  BROOK  &  COMPANY 

1917 


tL>  .«w  j!  ■;  .1  i 


Copyright,  1896,  by  R.  S.  Peale  and  J.  A.  Hill 

Copyright,  1902,  by  J.  A.  Hill 

Copyright,  1913,  by  Warner  Library  Company 

Copyright,  1917,  by  United  States  Publishers  Association,  Inc. 

All  Rights  Reserved 


*<       c^ct         e<coo  9  c         « 

t      «      «  C       J        C        «       '  C-     C  •  DO 

cc       ccc        c**  cooova        ^    ^  t 


ADVISORY  COUNCIL 


EDWIN  A.  ALDERMAN 

President  of  the  University  of  Virginia 

RICHARD  BURTON 

Professor  of  English  in  the  University  of  Minnesota 

MAURICE  FRANCIS  EGAN 

American  Ambassador   to   Denmark;  Formerly   Professor  of  Literature 
in  the  Catholic  University  of  America 

BRANDER  MATTHEWS 

Professor  of  Dramatic  Literature  in  Columbia  University 

WILLIAAI  LYON  PHELPS 

Professor  of  English  in  Yale  University 

PAUL  SHOREY 

Professor  of  Greek  in  the  University  of  Chicago 

WILLIAM  M.  SLOANE 

Seth  Low  Professor  of  History  in  Columbia  University 

CRAWFORD  H.  TOY 

Professor  Emeritus  of  Hebrew  in  Harvard  University 

WILLIAM  P.  TRENT 

Professor  of  English  Literature  in  Columbia  University 

BENJAMIN  IDE  WHEELER 

President  of  the  University  of  California 

GEORGE  M.  WRONG 

Professor  of  History  in  the  University  of  Toronto 


vu 


CONTENTS 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT,    1771-1832 

CRITICAL  ESSAY,  by  Andrew  Lang  . 

Cheapening  Fish ;  and  the  Village  Post-Office 

The  Covenanter 

The  Meeting  of  Jeanie  and  Effie  Deans 

A  Royal  Rival 

The  Tournament    . 

The  Hermit— Friar  Tuck 

Richard  and  Saladin 

The  Last  Minstrel  . 

Lochinvar 

Ellen  Douglas's  Bower 

The  Disclosure 

Song:  Jock  o' Hazeldean 

Highland  Song:  Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 

Norah's  Vow  .... 

The  Ballad  of  the  Red  Harlaw 

Song:  Brignall  Banks 

Bonny  Dundee        .... 

Flora  Maclvor's  Song 


PAGE 

1,2995 
13003 
I3011 
I3OI7 
13024 
13036 

13045 
13052 
13058 
13060 
13062 
1306,8 

13074 

13075 
13076 

13077 
13078 
13080 
I3081. 


AUGUSTIN   EUGENE   SCRIBE,    1791-1861 


CRITICAL  ESSAY      . 

Merlin's  Pet  Fairy 
The  Price  of  Life 


13083 
13084 
13089 


JOHN   SELDEN,    1584-1654 

CRITICAL  ESSAY      .... 

From  the 'Table-Talk'    . 


13099 
13101 


ETIENNE   PIVERT   DE   SENANCOUR,    1770-1846 

CRITICAL  ESSAY 

Alpine  Scenery        ••...... 

Conditions  of  Happiness  ...... 

Obermann's  Isolation 


13112 
131 15 
13117 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


SENECA,  c  4  B.C.- 65   A.D. 


CRITICAL  ESSAY      ...... 

Time  Wasted  .  .  .  .  , 

Independence  in  Action  .  .    '      . 

Praises  of  the  Rival  School  in  Philosophy- 
Inconsistency  .  .  .  .  , 
On  Leisure     ..... 
The  Wooing  of  Megara   ... 


PAGE 
I3II9 
I3123 
I3124 

I3I25 
I3I26 
I3127 
I3132 


MATILDE   SERAO,    1856- 


CRITICAL   ESSAY       ...... 

From  '  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  ' 
The  Boarding- School        .... 
The  Schoolgirls'  Vow       .... 


MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE,    1627-1696 


CRITICAL   ESSAY       ....... 

Letters  to  her  Cousin,  M.  de  Coulanges     . 
Letters  to  her  Daughter,  Madame  de  Grignan    . 


13133 

13134 
13138 
13149 


13153 
13155 
13157 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE,    1 564-1 61 6 

CRITICAL  ESSAY,  by  Edward  Dowden 
CRITICAL  ESSAY,  by  Emest  Hunter  Wright 
Songs  and  their  Settings: 

Ariel . 

Ariel's  Song 

Marriage  Song    . 

Silvia 

Falstaff  Tormented  by  the  Supposed  Fairies 

Song:  Take,  Oh!  Take 

Balthazar's  Song 

Lady  Hero's  Epitaph 

White  and  Red   . 

Love's  Rhapsody 

Song :  Spring  and  Winter 

Puck 

The  Diversions  of  the  Fairies 

The  Fairies'  Wedding  Charm 

Where  is  Fancy  Bred   . 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree  . 

Blow,  Blow,  Thou  Winter  Wind 

Love  in  Springtime 

One  in  Ten 

Sweet  and  Twenty 

Love's  Lament    . 

The  Rain  It  Raineth 

When  Daffodils  Begin  to  Peer 


13167 
13174 

13189 
13190 
13192 
13192 
13193 
13194 
13194 
13195 
13195 
13196 
13196 
13197 

13199 
13201 

13203 
13203 
13204 
13205 
13205 
13206 
13206 
13207 
13207 


CONTENTS 


]X 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE— Co«/w 

ued 

PAGE 

What  Maids  Lack 13208 

1                     Sweet  Music 

13208 

Doubt  Not 

13209 

1                     Dead  and  Gone  . 

13209 

Ophelia's  Lament 

I32IO 

In  the  Church- Yard 

I32II 

lago's  Soldier-Songs 

I3216 

Desdemona's  Last  Song 

I3216 

Hark!  Hark!  the  Lark 

I3217 

!                      Fear  No  More     . 

I3217 

j                      Time's  Glory 

I3218 

Sonnets 

I3219 

Songs  Attributed  to  Shakespeare: 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth 13225 

Beauty 13225 

Threnos 13226 

Scenes  from  the  Comedies  and  Histomes: 

Dogberry  Captain  of  the  Watch    .......      13227 

Shylock  and  Antonio    . 

13229 

Launcelot  and  Old  Gobbo 

13230 

The  Quality  of  Mercy 

13233 

Lorenzo  and  Jessica 

13234 

Rosalind,  Orlando,  Jaqucs 

13236 

Richard  IL  in  Prison   . 

« 

I324I 

FalstafI  and  Prince  Hal 

13243 

Falstaff's  Army  . 

13247 

Falstaff  in  Battle 

13249 

Henry's  Wooing  of  Katharine 

13251 

Glostcr  and  Anne:  Gloster's  Soliloquy 

13256 

Scenes  from  the  Tragedies: 

The  Parting  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  .......      13257 

Antony's  Speech  over  Csesar's  Body 

•      13258 

Cleopatra  on  the  Cydnus 

•      13261 

The  Death  of  Cleopatra 

■      13262 

The  Opening  Scene  of  '  Hamlet ' 

13264  a 

Hamlet  Meditates  Suicide     . 

13264  f 

Hamlet's  Revenge  Accomplislicd 

13264  g 

Othello's  Story  of  his  Wooing 

13264  j 

The  Murder  of  Desdemona  . 

13264  k 

Lear's  Recovery 

13264  p 

The  Death  of  Lear 

13264  r 

Macbeth  before  the  Deed 

13264  t 

The  !Murder  Scene 

13264  V 

The  Slccp-Walking  Scene 

13264  y 

IMacbeth's  Despair 

13265 

The  Death  of  Young  Siward 

13265  b 

CONTENTS 


GEORGE   BERNARD   SHAW, 

CRITICAL  ESSAY,  by  Clayton  Hamilton 
The  Choice    .... 
Caesar,  the  Sphinx,  and  Cleopatra 
The  Woman  Triumphs    . 
Englishman  and  Irishman 
The  Death  of  the  Artist  . 
The  Meaning  of  Love 


1856- 


PAGE 

13265  d 
13265  k 
13265  q 
13265  r 

13265  s 
13266 

13266  f 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY,    1792- 

CRITICAL  ESSAY,  by  George  E.  Woodberry 
From  '  Prometheus  Unbound  ' 
Last  Hour  of  Beatrice 
Adonais 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 
Ozymandias   . 
The  Indian  Serenade 
Ode  to  the  West  Wind     . 
The  Sensitive  Plant:  Part  First 
The  Cloud      . 
To  a  Skylark 
Arethusa 
Hymn  of  Pan 
To  Night 
To ^ 


-1822 


13266  g 
13271 

13273 
13276 
13288 
13291 
13291 
13292 

13294 
13297 
13299 
13302 
13304 
13305 
13306 


WILLIAM   SHENSTONE,    1714-1763 

CRITICAL  ESSAY      . 

Pastoral  Ballad 
Song      . 
Disappointment 
Hope     . 

Much  Taste  and  Small  Estate 
From  '  The  Schoolmistress  ' 


13307 
13309 
13310 

133 1 1 
13312 

13314 
133 1 5 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN,    1751-1816 

CRITICAL  ESSAY,  by  Brander  Matthews 
Mrs.  Malaprop's  Views    . 
Sir  Lucius  Dictates  a  Cartel     . 
The  Duel 

The  Scandal  Class  Meets 
Matrimonial  Felicity 

Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Teazle  Agree  to  Disagree 
Auctioning  Off  One's  Relatives 
The  Pleasures  of  Friendly  Criticism 
Rolla's  Address  to  the  Peruvian  Warriors 


13317 
1332 1 
13324 
13327 
13333 
13339 
13344 
13347 
13355 
13361 


CONTENTS 


XI 


JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE,    1 834-1 903  page 

CRITICAL   ESSAY       ...........  I3363 

Inglesant  Visits  IMr.  Ferrar's  Religious  Community     ....  13365 

The  Visit  to  the  Astrologer       ........  13374 

John  Inglesant  Makes  a  Journey,  and  Meets  his  Brother's  IVIurderer  13378 


SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY,    1554-1586 

CRITICAL   ESSAY,   by   PiTTS   DuFFIELD 

The  Arrival  in  Arcadia    . 

Astrophel  and  Stella 

Sonnets  to  Stella     .... 


13385 
,13388 

'  13396 

13397 


HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ,  1846- 

CRITICAL  ESSAY,  by  Charles  Harvey  Genung 
Zagloba  Captures  a  Banner 
Podbipienta's  Death 
Basia  Works  a  Miracle    . 
Basia  and  Alichael  Part 
The  Funeral  of  Pan  Michael 


13399 
13405 
13410 

13427 
1343 1 
13435 


EDWARD   ROWLAND   SILL,    1 841-1887 

CRITICAL   ESSAY       . 
Opportunity 
Home    . 

The  Fool's  Prayer 
A  Morning  Thought 
Strange. 
Life 


13439 
1 344 1 
13441 
13442 
13443 
13444 
13444 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIM^IS,    1 806-1 870 


CRITICAL   ESSAY       . 

The  Doom  of  Occonestoga 
The  Burden  of  the  Desert 


13445 
13447 
13460 


SIMONIDES   OF   CEOS,   556-468   B.C. 

CRITICAL  ESSAY,  by  Walter  Miller  . 

Danae's  Lament      ..... 
From  the  '  Epinician  Ode  for  Scopas  ' 
Inscription  for  an  Altar  Dedicated  to  Artemis 
Epitaph  for  Those  Who  Fell  at  Thermopylae 
Fragment  of  a  Scolion      .... 
Time  Is  Fleeting      .  .  .  . 

Virtue  Coy  and  Hard  to  Win  . 
Epitaphs         ...... 


13462 

13467 
13468 
13468 
13469 
13469 
13469 
13470 
13470 


Xll 


CONTENTS 


JEAN   CHARLES   SIMONDE   DE   SISMONDI,    1 773-1 842 

CRITICAL  ESSAY,  by  Humphrey  J.  Desmond 

Boccaccio's  '  Decameron '  .  .  .  . 

The  Troubadour     ...... 

Italy  in  the  Thirteenth  Century 

A  Fifteenth-Century  Soldier:  Francesco  Carmagnola 

The  Ruin  of  Florence  and  its  Republic 


ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON, 

CRITICAL   ESSAY       ..... 

Butterneggs   ..... 

JULIUS   SLOWACKI,    1 809-1 849 


1838- 


CRITICAL   ESSAY       . 

From  '  Mindowe  '   . 
I  Am  So  Sad,  O  God! 


PAGE 

I347I 
13474 
13475 
13476 

13479 
13481 


13487 
13490 


13508 
I35II 
I3517 


ADAM   SMITH,    1 723-1 790 

CRITICAL  ESSAY,  by  Richard  T.  Ely 
The  Prudent  Man  . 
Of  the  Wages  of  Labor    , 
Home  Industries 
Of  Military  and  General  Education 

FRANCIS   HOPKINSON   SMITH,    1838-1915 

CRITICAL   ESSAY       ........ 

From  '  Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville  '        .  .  . 

GOLDWIN   SMITH,    1823-1910 

CRITICAL   ESSAY       ........ 

John  Pym       ........ 

The  Puritan  Colonies       ...... 

SYDNEY  SMITH,    1771-1845 

CRITICAL   ESSAY      .... 

The  Education  of  Women 

John  Bull's  Charity  Subscriptions 

Wisdom  of  Our  Ancestors 

Latin  Verses  . 

Mrs.  Siddons 

Dogs     . 

Hand- Shaking 

Small  Men     . 

Macaulay 

Specie  and  Species 

Daniel  Webster 

Review  of  the  Novel  '  Granby ' 


13519 
13524 
13527 
13530 
13535 


13536  a 
13536  c 


13537 
13540 
13547 


13556 
13558 
13564 
13564 
13566 

13570 
13570 
13571 
13571 
13571 
13572 
13572 
13572 


CONTENTS 


Xlll 


TOBIAS   GEORGE   SMOLLETT,    1721-1771 

CRITICAL  ESSAY,  by  Pitts  Duffield  ...... 

A  Naval  Surgeon's  Examination  in  the  Eighteenth  Century 
Roderick  is  Pressed  into  the  Navy    ..... 

Roderick  Visits  a  Gaming-House       ..... 

Old- Fashioned  Love-lVIaking :  An  Old-Fashioned  Wedding   . 
Humphrey  Clinker  is  Presented  to  the  Reader  . 


PAGE 

13575 
13579 
13582 

13587 
13590 
13594 


DENTON   J.   SNIDER,    1841- 


CRITICAL   ESSAY       . 

The  Battle  of  Marathon 


1 3  601 
13603 


SOCRATES,    ?  469-399  B.C. 

CRITICAL  ESSAY,  by  Herbert  Weir  Smyth 

Socrates  Refuses  to  Escape  from  Prison     . 
Socrates  and  Euthydemus 
Duty  of  Politicians  to  Qualify  Themselves 
Before  the  Trial      ..... 


13627 
13633 
13637 
13639 
13640 


SOLON,    ?  638-?  559   B.C. 

CRITICAL   ESSAY       ..... 

Defense  of  his  Dictatorship 

Solon  Speaks  his  Mind  to  the  Athenians 

Two  Fragments      .... 


13642 

13644 
13645 
13646 


XV 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

SHAKESPEARE   AND   HIS   FRIENDS 

Photogravure         ...••• 

WALTER   SCOTT 

Photogravure  ....-■ 

SIR   WALTER    SCOTT    ('Kenilworth') 

Facsimile  manuscript     .  .  .  .  • 

SENECA 

Half  tone      ....••• 

MARIE    DE    SEVIGNE 

Half  tone      .....•• 

SHAKESPEARE 

Portrait  from  wood         ..... 

GEORGE   BERNARD   SHAW 

Photogravure         ...... 

IrERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

Portrait  from  wood        ..... 

RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

Portrait  from  wood         ..... 

SIR  PHILIP   SIDNEY 

Portrait  from  wood         ..... 

HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ 

Half  tone      ....... 

SOCRATES 

Half  tone     . 


Frontispiece 

Facing  page  12995 

"   "  13024 

"   "  13119 

"   "  13153 

«   "  13167 

"   "  I3265(i 

"   "  I3266g 

"   "  13317 

"   "  13385 

"   "  13399 


13627 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Photogravure    from    an   engraving'   by   Walker,    after   a   painting' 

by  Henry  Raebum. 


too?.  51^1 

-"-iW   yd  V'- 


^2995 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

(1771-1832) 

BY  ANDREW   LANG 

5FTEN  as  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  write  about  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  I  never  sit  down  to  do  so  without  a  sense  of  hap- 
piness and  elation.  It  is  as  if  one  were  meeting  a  dear 
friend,  or  at  the  least  were  to  talk  with  other  friends  about  him. 
This  emotion  is  so  strong,  no  doubt,  because  the  name  and  memory 
and  magic  of  Sir  Walter  are  entwined  with  one's  earliest  recollections 
of  poetry,  and  nature,  and  the  rivers  and  hills  of  home.  Yet  the 
phrase  of  a  lady,  a  stranger,  in  an  unpublished  letter  to  Scott,  "  You 
are  such  a  friendly  author,  >'  contains  a  truth  not  limited  to  Scott's 
fellow-countrymen  and  fellow-Borderers.  To  read  him,  to  read  all 
of  him  almost,  to  know  his  works  familiarly,  is  to  have  a  friend.,  and 
as  it  were,  an  invisible  playmate  of  the  mind.  Goethe  confessed  this 
spell;  it  affected  even  Carlyle;  all  Europe  knew  its  charm;  Alex- 
andre Dumas,  the  Scott  of  France,  not  only  felt  it  but  can  himself 
inspire  it, —  the  spell  of  a  great,  frank,  wise,  humorous,  and  loving 
nature,  accompanied  by  a  rich  and  sympathetic  imagination,  and 
equipped  with  opulence  of  knowledge.  In  modern  England,  few  men 
have  had  wider  influence  than  two  who  in  many  respects  are  all  un- 
like Scott, —  Mr.  Gladstone  and  Mr.  Ruskin;  yet  their  writings  are  full 
of  admiration  for  *^  the  Magician  who  dwelleth  in  the  castle  on  the 
Border.  >>  To-day,  some  very  ^*  modern  >>  people  of  letters,  in  no  way 
remarkable  either  for  knowledge,  fancy,  or  humor,  affect  to  speak  of 
Scott  with  disdain.  The  latest  criticism  which  I  chanced  to  read 
talked  of  his  "romances  of  chivalry,'^  as  if  they  had  no  connection 
with  actual  "life.**  He  wrote  only  about  three  prose  "romances  of 
chivalry.'*  It  is  life  itself  that  throbs  in  a  score,  perhaps  a  hun- 
dred, of  his  characters.  Davie  Deans,  Jeanie  Deans,  Bessie  Mac- 
lure,  Nantie  Ewart,  Wandering  Willie,  Andrew  Fairservice,  Louis  XL, 
James  VI.,  Ratcliffe,  Madge  Wildfire,  the  Dugald  Creature,  Galium 
Beg,  Diana  Vernon,  Dugald  Dalgetty,  the  fishers  of  'The  Antiquary,* 
Baillie  Nicol  Jarvie,  Claverhouse,  Meg  Dods, —  these  are  but  a  few 
of  Scott's  immortally  living  characters.  From  kings  to  gillies,  they 
all  display  life  as  it  has  been,  and  is,  and  will  be  lived.  Remoteness 
and  strangeness  of  time  and  place  and  society  can  never  alter  nature. 


12996 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 


nor  hide  from  minds  not  prejudiced  and  dwarfed  by  restricted  facul- 
ties and  slovenly  sham  education,  the  creative  greatness  of  Scott. 

His  life  has  been  told  by  the  first  biographer  in  British  literature 
save  Boswell.  It  has  been  my  lot  to  read  most  of  the  manuscript 
materials  used  by  Scott's  son-in-law  and  biographer,  Lockhart;  and 
the  perusal  only  increases  one's  esteem  for  his  work.  Lockhart's  tact 
in  selection  was  infallible.  But  his  book  is  a  long  book;  and  parts  of 
it  which  interest  a  Scot  do  not  strongly  appeal  to  the  interest  of  an 
Englishman  or  an  American  not  of  Scottish  descent.  Nevertheless 
Lockhart's  ^  Biography  ^  is  in  itself  a  delightful,  if  not  indispensable, 
accompaniment  of  Sir  Walter's  works.  No  biographer  had  ever  less 
to  conceal :  a  study  of  the  letters  and  other  unpublished  documents 
makes  this  certain.  The  one  blot  on  Sir  Walter's  scutcheon  —  his 
dabbling  in  trade  —  was  matter  of  public  knowledge  during  his  own 
lifetime.  Occasional  defects  of  temper,  such  as  beset  the  noblest 
natures,  Lockhart  did  not  hide ;  for  which  he  was  foolishly  blamed. 
Speaking  from  the  most  intimate  knowledge  now  attainable,  one  may 
confidently  say  that  Lockhart's  Scott  is  the  real  man,  "as  known  to 
his  Maker.  >> 

There  is  no  room  here  for  even  a  sketch  of  a  life  already  familiar 
in  outline.  Persons  so  unfortunate  as  "  not  to  have  time  ^*  to  read 
Lockhart,  will  find  all  that  is  necessary  in  Mr.  R.  H.  Hutton's  sketch 
(^  English  Men  of  Letters  *  series),  or  in  Mr.  Saintsbury's  ^  Sir  Walter 
Scott  ^  (^Famous  Scots  ^  series).  The  poet  and  novelist  was  descended 
from  the  Border  house  of  Harden:  on  the  spindle  side  he  had  the 
blood  of  Campbells,  Macdonalls,  Haliburtons,  and  Rutherfords  in  his 
veins.  All  of  these  are  families  of  extreme  antiquity, — the  Macdon- 
alls having  been  almost  regal  in  Galloway  and  Argyle.  Scott's  father 
(born  1729)  was  a  Writer  to  the  Signet,  the  Saunders  Fairford  of 
*  Redgauntlet.^ 

The  poet  and  novelist  was  born  on  August  15th,  1771,  and  died  in 
1832.  The  details  of  his  infancy,  his  lameness,  his  genius  in  child- 
hood, his  studious  and  adventurous  boyhood,  his  incomplete  education 
(like  St.  Augustine  he  would  not  learn  Greek),  his  adoption  of  the 
profession  of  advocate,  may  be  found  in  every  ^Life.*  <*The  first  to 
begin  a  row  and  the  last  to  end  it,^'  Scott  knew  intimately  all  ranks 
of  society  before  he  had  published  a  line.  Duchesses,  gipsies,  thieves, 
Highlanders,  Lowlanders,  students,  judges,  attorneys'  clerks,  actors, 
gamekeepers,  farmers,  tramps, —  he  was  at  home  with  all  of  them, 
while  he  had  read  everything  in  literature  that  most  people  do  not 
know.  It  was  his  fortune  to  be  a  poet  while  England  yet  had  two 
kings:  George  III.  de  facto,  Charles  III.  and  Henry  IX.  de  jure.  Hope- 
less as  the  Jacobite  cause  now  was,  the  sentiment  lingered;  and  Scott 
knew  intimately  the  man  who  sent  the  Fiery  Cross  through  Appin  in 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  1 2997 

1745, — Invernahyle.  A  portrait  of  Prince  Charles  was  one  of  his  ear- 
liest purchases.  He  had  seen  Burns,  who  wrote  the  last  *■  Birthday 
Ode*  for  a  royal  Stuart.  Yet  his  youth  was  contemporary  with  the 
French  Revolution,  which  only  made  him  more  of  a  Tory.  His 
infancy  dwelt  with  sad  excitement  on  our  disasters  in  the  Ameri- 
can War  of  Independence.  Thus  he  lived  in  the  Medea's-caldron  of 
history,  with  a  head  and  heart  full  of  the  knowledge  and  love  of  the 
past, — in  poetry,  ballad,  legend,  charter,  custom.  From  all  this  rich 
experience  of  men  and  women,  of  the  European  <<  Twilight  of  the 
Gods,*'  of  clashing  societies  and  politics,  of  war  and  literature,  came 
the  peculiar  and  original  ply  of  his  genius. 

This  was  ripened  probably  by  a  love  affair  which  ended  when  he 
was  twenty- five  (1796);  ended  as  far  as  hope  was  concerned,  other- 
wise it  closed  only  with  his  earthly  life,  if  then.  If  aught  of  man's 
personality  persists  after  death,  then  what  has  so  deeply  colored  and 
become  one  with  the  self  as  a  love  like  Scott's,  never  dies.  You 
find  its  traces  in  his  novels,  and  poems,  and  Journal:  it  even  peeps 
out  in  his  review  of  Miss  Austen's  novels.  From  living  tradition  — 
on  the  authority  of  a  lady  who,  having  seen  her  once,  loved  her  to 
her  own  death  in  extreme  age  —  we  are  able  to  say  that  Scott's  lost 
love  was  ^'an  angel  rather  than  a  woman." 

To  please  her  he  began  to  aim  at  success  in  letters,  starting 
with  a  translation  of  Biirger's  romantic  ballad,  ^Lenore.*  But  it  was 
in  vain.  Scott  bore  his  loss  like  a  man.  The  result  was  not  ele- 
giac poetry,  but,  as  Mr.  Saintsbury  justly  remarks,  the  conquest  of 
<'the  violence  of  Scott's  most  irritable  and  ungovernable  mind,"  so 
described  by  an  early  and  intimate  friend. 

To  understand  Scott,  all  this  must  be  kept  in  memory.  People 
complain  of  his  want  of  **  passion."  Of  passion  in  its  purest  and 
strongest  phase  no  man  had  known  more.  But  if  his  passion  was 
potent,  more  potent  was  his  character.  He  does  not  deal  in  embraces, 
and  such  descriptions  of  physical  charms  and  raptures  as  fill  the  lines 
of  Burns  and  Carew,  and  Paulus  Silentiarius.  "  I  may  not,  must  not- 
sing  of  love,"  says  his  minstrel;  but  whoever  has  read  *  Rob  Roy,^ 
and  lost  his  heart  to  Diana  Vernon,  ought  to  understand.  "  The  rest, 
they  may  live  and  learn."  Scott,  in  Carlyle's  phrase,  "consumed  his 
own  smoke  " ;  which  Carlyle  never  did. 

Next  year  (1797)  Scott  married  the  lady  —  Miss  Carpenter  or  Char- 
pentier  —  to  whom  he  was  the  fondest  and  most  faithful  of  husbands. 
Hogg  calls  her  "  a  perfect  beauty " ;  small,  dark,  and  piqiiantc,  and  **  a 
sweet,  kind,  affectionate  creature."  Mrs.  Scott  had  humor  and  high 
spirits,  as  one  or  two  of  her  letters  show;  she  made  no  kind  of  liter- 
ary pretensions;  and  a  certain  fretfulness  in  her  latest  years  may  be 
attributed  to  the  eflfects  of  a  lingering  and  fatal  illness.  Scott  and 
she  were  very  happy  together. 


12998 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 


The  details  of  his  professional  career  at  the  bar  may  be  omitted. 
He  was  an  unsuccessful  pleader,  but  got  the  remunerative  office  of 
<^  sheriff  of  the  forest  '^  of  Ettrick.  He  roamed  in  Galloway,  Liddes- 
dale,  and  the  Highlands;  he  met  ^*Monk^*  Lewis,  and  began  some 
ballads  for  a  collection  of  his.  Already,  in  <  The  Eve  of  St.  John,* 
we  see  the  qualities  of  Scott  —  and  the  defects.  In  1802  appeared  his 
< Border  Minstrelsy,*  printed  at  Kelm  by  his  school  friend,  James 
Ballantyne.  This  was  the  beginning  of  a  fatal  connection.  Scott  be- 
came secretly  a  printer  and  publisher.  Though  he  owns,  and  justly, 
to  ^*  a  thread  of  the  attorney  **  in  his  nature,  he  had  neither  the  leis- 
ure nor  the  balance  for  a  man  of  business.  He  became  entangled 
in  the  system  of  fictitious  credit;  he  never  shook  off  its  meshes;  and 
when  a  commercial  crash  came  in  1825-26,  he  was  financially  ruined. 
The  poet  in  him  had  been  acquiring  treasures  of  things  old,  books 
and  curios;  he  had  built  for  these  Abbotsford,  an  expensive  villa  on 
a  bad  site,  but  near  Tweed;  he  had  purchased  land,  at  exorbitant 
rates,  mainly  for  antiquarian  and  poetical  reasons  of  association,  partly 
from  the  old  Scottish  territorial  sentiment;  he  had  kept  open  house, 
and  given  money  with  royal  munificence ;  a  portion  of  his  gains  was 
fairy  gold,  mere  paper.  So  Sir  Walter  was  ruined;  and  he  killed 
himself,  and  broke  his  brain,  in  the  effort  to  pay  his  creditors.  He 
succeeded,  but  did  not  live  to  see  his  success.  That,  in  the  briefest 
form,  and  omitting  his  politics  (which  were  chivalrous),  is  the  story 
of  a  long  life,  strenuous  almost  beyond  literary  example,  and  happy 
as  men  may  look  for  happiness.  Of  his  sons  and  daughters  only  one 
left  offspring, —  Sophia,  wife  of  John  Gibson  Lockhart.  Of  their  child- 
ren, again,  only  one,  the  wife  of  Mr.  Hope,  later  Hope-Scott,  left 
issue, —  Mr.  Maxwell  Scott,  from  whom  descend  a   flourishing  family. 

Of  Scott's  poems  it  must  be  said  that  he  is,  first  of  all  and  above 
all,  a  teller  of  tales  in  rhyme.  Since  Spenser,  perhaps,  no  one  had 
been  able  to  interest  the  world  in  a  rhymed  romaunt.  Byron,  fol- 
lowing Scott,  outdid  him  for  the  hour  in  popularity;  our  own  age  has 
seen  Tennyson's  Idylls  and  Mr.  William  Morris.  Thus  rare  is  success 
in  the  ancient  art  of  romance  in  verse.  The  genre  is  scarcely  com- 
patible (except  in  Homer's  hands)  with  deep  reflection,  or  with  highly 
finished  language.  At  Alexandria,  in  the  third  century  before  our 
era,  poets  and  critics  were  already  disputing  as  to  whether  long 
narrative  poems  were  any  longer  possible ;  and  on  the  whole  they 
preferred,  like  Lord  Tennyson,  brief  <<  idylls  *>  on  epic  themes. 

Sir  Walter,  of  course,  chose  not  epic  but  romance;  he  follows  the 
mediaeval  romanticists  in  verse,  adding  popular  ballad  qualities  after 
the  example,  in  method  and  versificatioji,  of  Coleridge's  <  Christabel.* 
The  result  was  a  new  form;  often  imitated,  but  never  successfully. 
How  welcome  it  was  to  an  age  wearied  with  the  convention  of  the 
Popeian   heroic   couplet,  in  incompetent  hands,  need  not  be  said.     In 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT  12999 

our  age  Scott's  narrative  verse  mainly  appeals  (as  he  said  himself 
that  he  appealed)  to  young  people.  Older  lovers  of  poetry  want 
subtler   style    and    deeper    thought. 

«  Though  wild  as  cloud,  as  stream,  as  gale, 
Flow  forth,  flow  unrestrained,  my  Tale,» 

said  the  poet.  He  judged  himself,  on  the  negative  side,  with  perfect 
accuracy.  Nobody  knew  his  own  defects  better.  « Our  father  says 
that  nothing  is  so  bad  for  young  people  as  reading  bad  poetry, »  says 
his  daughter;  and  he  did  not  wish  his  children  to  read  his  <  Lays' 
and  <Ladys.'  Yet  he  knew  by  an  amiable  inconsistency  that  his 
appeal  was  to  young  people. 

In  responding  to  that  appeal,  the  present  writer  is,  and  hopes  to 
remain,  young.  The  nine-and-twenty  knights  of  fame  who  stabled 
their  steeds  in  Branxholme  Hall  charm  him  as  much  as  they  did 
when  his  years  were  six.  The  Ride  of  William  of  Deloraine  remains 
the  best  of  riding  ballads.  The  Goblin  Page  abideth  terrible  and 
grotesque.  And  it  is  so  with  the  rest.  We  cannot  force  our  tastes 
on  others.  If  any  man's  blood  is  not  stirred  by  the  last  stand  of  the 
spears   of   Scotland   at    Flodden,  when 

«The  stubborn  spearmen  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood, 
Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood 
The  instant  that  he  fell,» 

in  that  man's  blood  there  can  be  very  little  iron.  It  is  not  that  one 
would  always  be  reading  poetry  of  war.  But  war  too  has  its  poetry, 
and  here  it  is  chanted  as  never  before  nor  since.  Scott's  **  scenery  * 
now  wearies  many  readers;  but  in  the  early  century  it  was  novel; 
and  was  usually  seen  at  the  speed  of  The  Chase,  or  of  the  hurrying 
of  the  Fiery  Cross,  in  the  <  Lady  of  the  Lake.'  How  often,  looking 
at  the  ruined  shells  of  feudal  castles  of  the  west, —  Ardtornish,  Dun- 
staffnage,  and  the  others, —  one  has  thought  of  his  verse  on  these 
fortresses, — 

«  Each  on  its  own  dark  cape  reclined. 
And  listening  to  its  own  wild  wind.» 

The  task  of  reviving  Celtic  romance  was  left  to  a  Lowland  Scot, 
with  very  little  of  Celtic  blood  in  his  veins.  In  ^Rokeby'  my  own 
taste  prefers  the  lyrics,  as  <*Oh,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair,'* 
and  "A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid,''  and  <'When  the  dawn  on  the 
mountain  was  misty  and  gray."  The  <  Lord  of  the  Isles'  is  compara- 
tively confused  and  feeble. 


j^QQQ  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

Apart  from  —  and  I  think,  above  —  Scott's  success  in  rhymed  nar- 
rative, his  lyrics  hold  their  place.  I  heard  lately  of  a  very  « modern" 
lady,  who,  for  a  collection  of  exquisite  lyrics,  could  find  nothing  in 
Scott  worth  gathering  and  binding.  This  it  is  to  be  cultivated  be- 
yond one's  intellect!  Mr.  Palgrave,  in  <  The  Golden  Treasury, >  and 
Mr.  Swinburne,  have  not  been  of  the  fair  critic's  opinion.  I  have 
myself  edited  a  collection  of  all  Scott's  lyrics.  They  vary  much  in 
merit:  but  for  the  essence  of  all  romance,  and  pitiful  contrast  of  youth 
and  pride  and  death,  *■  Proud  Maisie  ^  is  noted ;  for  fire,  speed,  and 
loyalty,  <A  Health  to  King  Charles, >  <  Bonnie  Dundee,  >  <  Young  Loch- 
invar,  >  Flora  Maclvor's  Clan  Roll-Call ;  for  restrained  melancholy, 
<  The  Sun  upon  the  Weirdlaw  Hill  * ;  for  all  qualities  of  the  old  ballad, 
<The  Red  Harlaw.*  The  great  objections  to  Scott's  narrative  poems 
are,  in  a  hurried  age,  their  length  and  their  diffuseness.  In  his  lyr- 
ics he  has  all  his  good  qualities  without  the  defects.  Among  defects 
one  would  not  include  want  of  meditativeness,  of  the  "subjective,*^ 
of  the  magically  selected  word,  because  these  great  merits  are  not 
included  in  his  aim.  About  himself,  his  passions  and  emotions  (the 
material  of  most  lyrics  and  elegiacs),  he  was  not  going  to  speak. 

Of  Scott's  novels  it  is  nearly  as  impossible  to  write  here,  in  space 
so  brief,  as  of  Shakespeare's   plays.      Let  us  take  first  their   defects, 
to  which  the   author  himself  pleads  guilty.     The   shortest  way   to  an 
understanding  of  Scott's  self-criticism  is  the  reading  of  his  Introduc- 
tions to  <  The  Abbot  >  and  <  Nigel.  >      He  admits  his  deficiency  in  plot 
and  construction,— things  of  charpentage,  within  the  reach  of  ordinary 
talent,  but   often   oddly  disregarded   by  genius:  witness   Shakespeare 
and    Moliere.     Scott's    conclusions,   he   owns,   are    « huddled    up'>;    he 
probably   borrowed   the    word   from   his   friend.    Lady    Louisa    Stuart. 
«  Yet  I  have  not  been  fool  enough  to  neglect  ordinary  precautions.     I 
have  repeatedly  laid  down  my  work  to  scale,  dividing  it  into  volumes 
and   chapters,   and    endeavored   to   construct   a   story   which   I   meant 
should  evolve   itself   gradually  and   strikingly,  maintain   suspense,  and 
stimulate  curiosity,  and  which   finally  should  terminate  in  a  striking 
catastrophe. »     But  he  could  not  do    it.     He  met  Dugald  Dalgetty,  or 
Baillie  Jarvie,  who  led  him    away  from  his   purpose.      If   he    resisted 
temptation,  he  <<  wrote  painfully  to  himself,  and  under  a  consciousness 
of  flagging  which  made  him  flag  still  more.     ...     In  short,  sir,  on 
such  occasions  I  think  I  am  bewitched.  >>     So  he  followed  his  genius, 
which   was    not    architectonic.      He    contented    himself    with    writing 
«with    sense   and    spirit   a    few   unlabored   and   loosely   put   together 
scenes,  but  which  had  sufficient  interest  in  them  to  amuse.'* 

As  for  his  style,  he  tells  Lockhart  that  he  « never  learned  gram- 
mar." His  manner  is  often  not  only  incorrect,  but  trailingly  diffuse; 
he  was  apt  to  pack  a  crowd  of  details  and  explanations,  about  which 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT  13001 

he  did  not  care,  into  a  sentence  which  began  anywhere  and  died  out 
anyhow.  This  was  arrant  carelessness.  But  it  was  usually  accom  ■ 
panied  by  simplicity  and  spontaneity;  if  it  does  not  charm  us  by 
cadence,  it  never  irritates  us  by  self-consciousness  and  futile  research. 
Such  are  Scott's  palpable  defects :  and  he  had  of  course  the  « old- 
fashionedness "  of  his  generation,  —  not  a  graceful  or  magnificent  sort 
of  old  fashion.  For  his  heroes,  and  many  of  his  heroines,  he  enter- 
tained a  complete  contempt, —  especially  for  Waverley.  They  are 
only  ordinary  young  people:  brave,  strong,  not  clever,  honorable,  a 
good  deal  puzzled  by  the  historical  crises  in  which  they  find  them- 
selves. They  are  often  neither  Whig  nor  Tory,  neither  Covenanter 
nor  Cavalier,  with  any  energy.  The  story  moves  on  round  them;  the 
characters  come  and  go, —  they  are  not  the  real  interest.  Rose  Brad- 
wardine  is  a  good,  affectionate,  ignorant,  confiding,  pretty  girl;  per- 
fectly true  to  nature,  but  no  Rosalind  no'-  Beatrice.  Di  Vernon,  and 
Catherine  Seton,  and  Rebecca  —  especially  Miss  Vernon  —  are  among 
the  few  heroines  whom  we  can  remember  and  adore.  Then  it  must 
be  conceded  that  Scott  does  not  deal  in  moral  or  social  "problems.'^ 
His  characters,  not  unlike  most  of  us,  know  what  is  the  right  thing 
to  do,  and  do  it  or  leave  it  alone.  Ivanhoe  vastly  preferred  Rebecca 
to  Rowena.  An  author  might  give  us  chapters  on  his  moral  and 
psychological  difficulties,  and  they  might  be  excellent  chapters.  But 
Ivanhoe  merely  conquers  his  passion  practically;  and  as  to  the  secret 
of  his  heart,  only  a  word  is  dropped.  Scott  never  lingers  over  inter- 
minable tragedies  of  the  emotions.  Most  of  us  can  supply  what  is 
lacking  for  ourselves  in  that  respect. 

It  will  be  seen  that  Scott's  novels  have  the  obvious  blemishes  of 
which  many  readers  are  most  intolerant,  and  lack  the  qualities  (<*  pas- 
sion," and  <*  subtlety, '^  and  <*  style '*)  of  which  people  literary  do  now 
most  delight  to  be  talking.  We  can  love  Scott  with  Goethe,  Dumas, 
Thackeray,  Mr.  Ruskin, —  or  we  can  carp  at  him  with  Mr.  George 
Moore.  It  is  a  matter  of  taste,  which  is  in  great  part  a  matter  of 
character,  training,  association,  and  education.  But  we  who  admire, 
and  take  lifelong  pleasure  in.  Sir  Walter,  "have  great  allies,"  —  the 
greatest  of  critical  names;  we  need  not  fear  to  speak  with  the  adver- 
sary in  the  gate.  We  admit  the  absence  of  some  excellent  qualities: 
we  admit  the  presence  of  diffuseness,  and  of  what,  to  exclusive 
readers  of  recent  novels,  is  tediousness.  Moreover,  if  like  Huckle- 
berry Finn  you  have  "no  use  for  dead  people,"  and  hate  history, 
of  course  you  cannot  be  pleased  with  any  historical  novels.  Gentle 
King  Jamie,  Queen  Mary,  Richard  of  the  Lion  Heart,  Bonnie  Prince 
Charlie,  Cavaliers  and  Covenanters,  knights  and  archers,  speak  a 
language  which  you  cannot  understand,  about  matters  which  do  not 
concern  you,  thrall  as  you  are  to  your  little  day  of  ideas  and  vogue. 


J-QQ2  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

But  Sir  Walter,  "for  a'  that,'*  has  qualities  which  delighted  all 
Europe,  and  which  still  delight  people  who  love  the  past,  and  love 
humor,  adventure,  the  spectacle  of  life.  These  people  are  not  few; 
for  they  must  be  the  purchasers  of  the  endless  new  editions,  cheap 
or  dear,  of  the  Waverley  Novels.  Sir  Walter  can  tell  a  story,  and  he 
can  create  men  and  women  —  not  to  mention  horses  and  dogs  —  of 
endless  varieties,  and  in  every  rank.  Moreover  he  can  create  places : 
Tully  Veolan  and  many  others  are,  as  Mr.  Saintsbury  says,  "our  own 
—  our  own  to  pass  freely  through  until  the  end  of  time.** 

Scott  is  old  now:  in  his  time,  as  poet  and  as  romancer,  he  was 
absolutely  new.  The  poems  did  not  proceed  obviously,  and  by  way 
of  manifest  gradual  evolution,  from  anything  familiar  to  most  men. 
The  old  French  rhymed  romances,  Barbour's  <  Bruce,*  the  ancient 
ballads,  and  ^  Christabel,*  all  went  to  their  begetting;  but  in  them- 
selves they  were  7inv.  New  also  was  the  historical  novel,  based  on 
vast  knowledge,  and  informed  with  such  life  as  Shakespeare  poured 
into  <  Henry  IV.*  or  <  Julius  Caesar.*  Scott  created  the  genre:  without 
him  there  had  been  no  ^Esmond,*  no  ^Master  of  Ballantrae,*  no  *  Mous- 
quetaires.*  Alexandre  Dumas,  as  historical  novelist,  is  the  greatest  of 
Scott's  works. 

There  is  here  no  space  for  detailed  criticism  of  the  novels.  A 
man  might  do  worse  than  read  *  Waverley,*  the  earliest,  and  then 
<  Redgauntlet,*  the  most  autobiographical,  in  succession.  Here  is  the 
romance  of  the  fallen  dynasty,  of  the  kings  landless,  whose  tomb  the 
dying  Scott  visited  in  Rome.  Had  I  to  choose  my  private  favorite, 
it  would  be  *•  Old  Mortality  * ;  which  might  be  followed  (as  ^  Waverley  * 
by  *•  Redgauntlet  *)  by  the  decline  of  the  Cameronians  in  <  The  Heart 
of  Mid-Lothian.*  For  chivalry  ^Ivanhoe*  is  pre-eminent;  with  ^Quentin 
Durward  *  for  adventure  and  construction.  And  after  these  a  man 
cannot  go  wrong;  though  <  Count  Robert  of  Paris,*  ^Peveril,*  <  Castle 
Dangerous,*  and  (in  Scott's  opinion)  *Anne  of  Geierstein,*  are  sad- 
dening, and  "smack  of  the  apoplexy.**  *  The  Pirate*  and  <The  Mon- 
astery *  are  certainly  not  novels  to  begin  with,  nor  is  <  St.  Ronan's 
Well.* 

Of  his  historical  works,  *  The  Tales  of  a  Grandfather*  can  never 
be  superseded;  the  < Napoleon,*  though  readable,  is  superseded,  and 
was  ungrateful  taskwork.  The  essays  are  a  great  treasure  of  enjoy- 
ment; the  <  Swift*  is  an  excellent  and  wise  biography.  The  ^Journal* 
is  the  picture  of  the  man, —  so  much  greater,  better,  kinder,  and 
more  friendly  than  even  the  author.  "Be  a  good  man,  my  dear,** 
was  his  last  word  to  Lockhart:  it  is  the  unobtrusive  moral  of  all  that 
he  wrote  and  was. 


<i:^»-^ 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  13003 

CHEAPENING   FISH ;    AND  THE   VILLAGE   POST-OFFICE 

From  <The  Antiquary  > 

MR.  Oldbuck  led  the  way  to  the  sands.  Upon  the  links  or 
downs  close  to  them  were  seen  four  or  five  huts  inhabited 
by  fishers;  whose  boats,  drawn  high  upon  the  beach,  lent 
the  odoriferous  vapors  of  pitch  melting  under  a  burning  sun, 
to  contend  with  those  of  the  ofEals  of  fish  and  other  nuisances 
usually  collected  round  Scottish  cottages.  Undisturbed  by  these 
complicated  steams  of  abomination,  a  middle-aged  woman,  with 
a  face  which  had  defied  a  thousand  storms,  sat  mending  a  net 
at  the  door  of  one  of  the  cottages.  A  handkerchief  close  bound 
about  her  head,  and  a  coat  which  had  formerly  been  that  of  a 
man,  gave  her  a  masculine  air,  which  was  increased  by  her 
strength,  uncommon  stature,  and  harsh  voice.  "What  are  ye 
for  the  day,  your  Honor  ? "  she  said,  or  rather  screamed,  to  Old- 
buck  :  "  caller  haddocks  and  whitings,  a  bannock-fluke  and  a  cock- 
padle.  ^^ 

"  How  much  for  the  bannock-fluke  and  cock-padle  ?  "  demanded 
the  Antiquary. 

"Four  white  shillings  and  saxpence,'^  answered  the  Naiad. 

"Four  devils  and  six  of  their  imps!'^  retorted  the  Antiquary: 
"  do  you  think  I  am  mad,   Maggie  ? " 

"And  div  ye  think,**  rejoined  the  virago,  setting  her  arms 
akimbo,  "  that  my  man  and  my  sons  are  to  gae  to  the  sea  in 
weather  like  yestreen  and  the  day  —  sic  a  sea  as  it's  yet  outb}'  — 
and  get  naething  for  their  fish,  and  be  misca'd  into  the  bargain, 
Monkbarns  ?     It's  no  fish  ye're  buying  —  it's  men's  lives.** 

"Well,  Maggie,  I'll  bid  you  fair:  I'll  bid  you  a  shilling  for 
the  fluke  and  the  cock-padle,  or  sixpence  separately;  and  if  all 
your  fish  are  as  well  paid,  I  think  your  man,  as  you  call  him, 
and  your  sons,  will  make  a  good  voyage.** 

"  Deil  gin  their  boat  were  knockit  against  the  Bell-Rock  rather! 
it  wad  be  better,  and  the  bonnier  voyage  o'  the  twa.  A  shilling 
for  thae  twa  bonnie  fish !     Od,  that's  ane  indeed !  ** 

"Well,  well,  you  old  beldam,  carry  your  fish  up  to  Monkbarns, 
and  see  what  my  sister  will  give  you  for  them.** 

"  Na,  na,  Monkbarns,  deil  a  fit, —  I'll  rather  deal  wi'  yoursell; 
for  though  you're  near  enough,  yet  Miss  Grizel  has  an  unco  close 
grip.  I'll  gie  ye  them**  (in  a  softened  tone)  "for  three-and- 
saxpence.  ** 


13004  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

"  Eighteenpence,  or  nothing !  '* 

"  Eighteenpence ! ! !  **  (in  a  loud'  tone  of  astonishment,  which 
declined  into  a  sort  of  rneful  whine,  when  the  dealer  turned  as 
if  to  walk  away)  —  *^  Ye'll  no  be  for  the  fish  then?*'  —  then  louder, 
as  she  saw  him  moving  off — "I'll  gie  ye  them  —  and  —  and  —  and 
a  half  a  dozen  o'  partans  to  make  the  sauce,  for  three  shillings 
and  a  dram.'* 

*  Half  a  crown  then,  Maggie,  and"  a  dram.*' 

"Aweel,  your  Honor  maun  hae't  your  ain  gate,  nae  doubt;  but 
a  dram's  worth  siller  now  —  the  distilleries  is  no  working.*' 

"And  I  hope  they'll  never  work  again  in  my  time,"  said  Old- 
buck. 

"Ay,  ay  —  it's  easy  for  your  Honor  and  the  like  o'  you  gentle- 
folks to  say  sae,  that  hae  stouth  and  routh,  and  fire  and  fending, 
and  meat  and  claith,  and  sit  dry  and  canny  by  the  fireside;  but 
an  ye  wanted  fire  and  meat,  and  dry  claes,  and  were  deeing  o' 
cauld,  and  had  a  sair  heart, — whilk  is  warst  ava, —  wi'  just  tip- 
pence  in  your  pouch,  wadna  ye  be  glad  to  buy  a  dram  wi't,  to  be 
eilding  and  claes,  and  a  supper  and  heart's-ease  into  the  bargain, 
till  the  morn's  morning  ? " 

-  "  It's  even  too  true  an  apology,  Maggie.     Is  your  goodman  off 
to  sea  this  morning  after  his  exertions  last  night  ?  " 

"  In  troth  is  he,  Monkbarns ;  he  was  awa  this  morning  by 
four  o'clock,  when  the  sea  was  working  like  barm  wi'  yestreen's 
wind,  and  our  bit  coble  dancing  in  't  like  a  cork." 

"  Well,  he's  an  industrious  fellow.  Carry  the  fish  up  to  Monk- 
barns.  " 

"That  I  will  — or  I'll  send  little  Jenny:  she'll  rin  faster;  — 
but  I'll  ca'  on  Miss  Grizzy  for  the  dram  mysell,  and  say  ye  sent 
me." 

A  nondescript  animal,  which  might  have  passed  for  a  mer- 
maid as  it  was  paddling  in  a  pool  among  the  rocks,  was  sum- 
moned ashore  by  the  shrill  screams  of  its  dam ;  and  having  been 
made  decent,  as  her  mother  called  it, —  which  was  performed 
by  adding  a  short  red  cloak  to  a  petticoat,  which  was  at  first  her 
sole  covering,  and  which  reached  scantily  below  her  knee, —  the 
child  was  dismissed  with  the  fish  in  a  basket,  and  a  request  on 
the  part  of  Monkbarns  that  they  might  be  prepared  for  din- 
ner. "It  would  have  been  long,"  said  Oldbuck,  with  much  self- 
complacency,  "  ere  my  womankind  could  have  made  such  a  rea- 
sonable  bargain   with    that    old    skinflint;    though    they  sometimes 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  13005 

wrangle  with  her  for  an  hour  together  under  my  study  window, 
Hke  three  sea-gulls  screaming  and  sputtering  in  a  gale  of  wind. 
But  come:  wend  we  on  our  way  to  Knockwinnock.'^     . 

Leaving  Mr.  Oldbuck  and  his  friend  to  enjoy  their  hard  bar- 
gain of  fish,  we  beg  leave  to  transport  the  reader  to  the  back 
parlor  of  the  postmaster's  house  at  Fairport;  where  his  wife,  he 
himself  being  absent,  was  employed  in  assorting  for  delivery  the 
letters  which  had  come  by  the  Edinburgh  post.  This  is  very 
often  in  country  towns  the  period  of  the  day  when  gossips  find 
it  particularly  agreeable  to  call  on  the  man  or  woman  of  letters; 
in  order,  from  the  outside  of  the  epistles, —  and  if  they  are  not 
belied,  occasionally  from  the  inside  also, —  to  amuse  themselves 
with  gleaning  information  or  forming  conjectures  about  the  cor- 
respondence and  affairs  of  their  neighbors.  Two  females  of  this 
description  were,  at  the  time  we  mention,  assisting  —  or  imped- 
ing—  Mrs.  Mailsetter  in  her  official  duty. 

"Eh,  preserve  us,  sirs!*^  said  the  butcher's  wife,  "there's  ten 
—  eleven  —  twall  letters  to  Tennant  &  Co.  Thae  folk  do  mair 
Dusiness  than  a'  the  rest  o'  the  burgh." 

"Ay;  but  see,  lass,^^  answered  the  baker's  lady,  "there's  twa 
o'  them  faulded  unco  square,  and  sealed  at  the  tae  side, —  I  doubt 
there  will  be  protested  bills  in  them.'^ 

"  Is  there  ony  letters  come  yet  for  Jenny  Caxon  ?  *^  inquired 
the  woman  of  joints  and  giblets:  "the  lieutenant's  been  awa 
three  weeks." 

"Just  ane  on  Tuesday  was  a  week,"  answered  the  dame  of 
letters. 

"  Was  't  a  ship  letter  ? "  asked  the  Fornerina. 

"  In  troth  was  't. " 

"It  wad  be  frae  the  lieutenant  then,"  replied  the  mistress  of 
the  rolls,  somewhat  disappointed :  "  I  never  thought  he  wad  hae 
lookit  ower  his  shouther  after  her." 

"Od,  here's  another,"  quoth  Mrs.  Mailsetter.  "A  ship  letter  — 
postmark,  Sunderland."  All  rushed  to  seize  it.  "  Na,  na,  led- 
dies,"  said  Mrs.  Mailsetter,  interfering:  "I  hae  had  eneugh  o' 
that  wark, —  ken  ye  that  Mr.  Mailsetter  got  an  unco  rebuke  frae 
the  secretary  at  Edinburgh,  for  a  complaint  that  was  made  about 
the  letter  of  Aily  Bisset's  that  ye  opened,  Mrs.  Shortcake  ?  " 

"  Me  opened ! "  answered  the  spouse  of  the  chief  baker  of 
Fairport:  "ye  ken  yoursell,  madam,  it  just  cam  open  o'  free  will 


I2oo6  SIR  WALTER   SCOTT 

in  my  hand.  What  could  I  help  it?  —  folk  suld  seal  wi'  better 
wax.  * 

**  Weel  I  wot  that's  true,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Mailsetter,  who  kept 
a  shop  of  small  wares ;  ^*  and  we  have  got  some  that  I  can  hon- 
estly recommend,  if  ye  ken  onybody  wanting  it.  But  the  short 
and  the  lang  o't  is,  that  we'll  lose  the  place  gin  there's  ony  mair 
complaints  o'  the  kind," 

^^  Hout,  lass, — the  provost  will  take  care  o'  that." 

^^  Na,  na,  I'll  neither  trust  to  provost  nor  bailie,"  said  the 
postmistress ;  ^*  but  I  wad  aye  be  obliging  and  neighborly,  and 
I'm  no  again'  your  looking  at  the  outside  of  a  letter  neither: 
see,  the  seal  has  an  anchor  on  't, —  he's  done  't  wi'  ane  o'  his  but- 
tons, I'm  thinking." 

"  Show  me  I  show  me !  "  quoth  the  wives  of  the  chief  butcher 
and  the  chief  baker;  and  threw  themselves  on  the  supposed 
love-letter,  like  the  weird  sisters  in  *■  Macbeth  ^  upon  the  pilot's 
thumb,  with  curiosity  as  eager  and  scarcely  less  malignant.  Mrs. 
Heukbane  was  a  tall  woman:  she  held  the  precious  epistle  up 
between  her  eyes  and  the  window.  Mrs.  Shortcake,  a  little  squat 
personage,  strained  and  stood  on  tiptoe  to  have  her  share  of  the 
investigation. 

^*Ay,  it's  frae  him,  sure  eneugh,"  said  the  butcher's  lady:  "I 
can  read  Richard  Taffril  on  the  corner,  and  it's  written,  like  John 
Thomson's  wallet,  frae  end  to  end." 

^^  Haud  it  lower  down,  madam,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Shortcake, 
in  a  tone  above  the  prudential  whisper  which  their  occupation 
required ;  ^*  haud  it  lower  down.  Div  ye  think  naebody  can  read 
hand  o'  writ  but  yoursell  ? " 

<^  Whist,  whist,  sirs,  for  God's  sake!"  said  Mrs.  Mailsetter: 
*  there's  somebody  in  the  shop;"  —  then  aloud,  **  Look  to  the 
customers,  Baby ! "  Baby  answered  from  without  in  a  shrill  tone, 
**  It's  naebody  but  Jenny  Caxon,  ma'am,  to  see  if  there's  ony 
letters  to  her." 

^*  Tell  her, "  said  the  faithful  postmistress,  winking  to  her  com- 
peers, ^*  to  come  back  the  morn  at  ten  o'clock,  and  I'll  let  her 
ken, —  we  havena  had  time  to  sort  the  mail  letters  yet;  she's  aye 
in  sic  a  hurry,  as  if  her  letters  were  o'  mair  consequence  than 
the  best  merchant's  o'  the  town." 

Poor  Jenny,  a  girl  of  uncommon  beauty  and  modesty,  could 
only  draw  her  cloak  about  her  to  hide  the  sigh  of  disappointment, 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  13007 

and  return   ineekly  home   to    endure    for  another  night   the    sick- 
ness of  the   heart  occasioned  by  hope  delayed. 

"There's  something  about  a  needle  and  a  pole/'  said  Mrs. 
Shortcake,  to  whom  her  taller  rival  in  gossiping  had  at  length 
yielded   a  peep   at   the   subject  of  their  curiosity. 

"Now,  that's  downright  shamefu',**  said  Mrs.  Heukbane:  "to 
scorn  the  poor  silly  gait  of  a  lassie  after  he's  keepit  company 
wi'  her  sae  lang,  and  had  his  will  o'  her,  as  I  make  nae  doubt  he 
has.» 

"It's  but  ower  muckle  to  be  doubted, '^  echoed  Mrs.  Shortcake: 
"to  cast  up  to  her  that  her  father's  a  barber  and  has  a  pole  at 
his  door,  and  that  she's  but  a  manty-maker  hersell!  Hout!  fy 
for  shame ! " 

"Hout  tout,  leddies,**  cried  Mrs.  Mailsetter,  "ye're  clean 
wrang:  it's  a  line  out  o'  ane  o'  his  sailors'  sangs  that  I  have 
heard   him    sing,   about  being   true    like    the  needle   to  the  pole.'' 

"  Weel,  weel,  I  wish  it  may  be  sae,''  said  the  charitable  Dame 
Heukbane;  "but  it  disna  look  weel  for  a  lassie  like  her  to  keep 
up  a  correspondence  wi'  ane  o'  the  king's  officers." 

"I'm  no  denying  that,"  said  Mrs.  Mailsetter;  "but  it's  a  great 
advantage  to  the  revenue  of  the  post-office,  thae  love-letters.  See, 
here's  five  or  six  letters  to  Sir  Arthur  Wardour — maist  o'  them 
sealed  wi'  wafers,  and  no  wi'  wax.  There  will  be  a  downcome 
there,  believe  me." 

"Ay;  they  will  be  business  letter^,  and  no  frae  ony  o'  his 
grand  friends,  that  seals  wi'  their  coats-of-arms,  as  they  ca' 
them,"  said  Mrs.  Heukbane:  "pride  will  hae  a  fa';  he  hasna 
settled  his  accovmt  wi'  my  gudeman,  the  deacon,  for  this  twal- 
month, — he's  but  slink,  I  doubt." 

"Nor  wi'  huz  for  sax  months,"  echoed  Mrs  Shortcake:  "he's 
but  a  brunt  crust." 

"There's  a  letter,"  interrupted  the  trusty  postmistress,  "from 
his  son  the  captain,  I'm  thinking, —  the  seal  has  the  same  things 
wi'  the  Knockwinnock  carriage.  He'll  be  coming  hame  to  see 
what  he  can  save  out  o'  the  fire." 

The  baronet  thus  dismissed,  they  took  up  the  esquire.  "Twa 
letters  for  Monkbarns;  —  they're  frae  some  o'  his  learned  friends 
now:  see  sae  close  as  they're  written,  down  to  the  very  seal, — 
and  a'  to  save  sending  a  double  letter;  that's  just  like  Monk- 
barns  himsell.  When  he  gets  a  frank  he  fills  it  up  exact  to  the 
weight  of  an  unce,  that  a  carvy-seed  would  sink  the  scale;   but 


i^ooS  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

he's  ne'er  a  grain  abune  it.  Weel  I  wot  I  wad  be  broken  if  I 
were  to  gie  sic  weight  to  the  folk  that  come  to  buy  our  pepper 
and  brimstone,  and  such-hke  sweetmeats.** 

"He's  a  shabby  body,  the  laird  o'  Monkbarns,**  said  Mrs. 
Heukbane;  "he'll  make  as  muckle  about  buying  a  forequarter  o' 
lamb  in  August  as  about  a  back  sey  o'  beef.  Let's  taste  another 
drop  of  the  sinning  **  (perhaps  she  meant  cinnamon)  "  waters, 
Mrs.  Mailsetter,  my  dear.  Ah,  lasses !  an  ye  had  kend  his  brother 
as  I  did:  mony  a  time  he  wad  slip  in  to  see  me  wi'  a  brace  o' 
wild  deukes  in  his  pouch,  when  my  first  gudeman  was  awa  at 
the  Falkirk  tryst;  weel,  weel  —  we'se  no  speak  o'  that  e'enow. ** 

"  I  winna  say  ony  ill  o'  this  Monkbarns,  '*  said  Mrs.  Shortcake : 
"his  brother  ne'er  brought  me  ony  wild  deukes,  and  this  is  a 
douce  honest  man;  we  serve  the  family  wi'  bread,  and  he  settles 
wi'  huz  ilka  week, —  only  he  was  in  an  unco  kippage  when  we 
sent  him  a  book  instead  o'  the  nick-sticks,  whilk,  he  said,  were 
the  true  ancient  way  o'  counting  between  tradesmen  and  cus- 
tomers;  and  sae  they  are,  nae  doubt.** 

"But  look  here,  lasses,**  interrupted  Mailsetter,  "here's  a  sight 
for  sair  e'en!  What  wad  ye  gie  to  ken  what's  in  the  inside  o' 
this  letter?  This  is  new  corn, —  I  haena  seen  the  like  o'  this: 
For  William  Lovel,  Esquire,  at  Mrs.  Hadoway's,  High  Street, 
Fairport,  by  Edinburgh,  N.  B.  This  is  just  the  second  letter  he 
has  had  since  he  was  here.** 

"Lord's  sake,  let's  see,  lass!  Lord's  sake,  let's  see!  —  That's 
him  that  the  hale  town  kens  naething  about  —  and  a  weel-fa'ard 
lad  he  is:  let's  see,  let's  see!**  Thus  ejaculated  the  two  worthy 
representatives  of  Mother  Eve. 

"  Na,  na,  sirs,**  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mailsetter:  "hand  awa  —  bide 
aff,  I  tell  you;  this  is  nane  o'  your  fourpenny  cuts  that  we  might 
make  up  the  value  to  the  post-ofifice  amang  ourselves  if  ony 
mischance  befell  it;  the  postage  is  five-and-twenty  shillings  —  and 
here's  an  order  frae  the  Secretary  to  forward  it  to  the  young 
gentleman  by  express,  if  he's  no  at  hame.  Na,  na,  sirs,  bide  aff : 
this  maunna  be  roughly  guided.** 

"But  just  let's  look  at  the  outside  o't,  woman.** 

Nothing-  could  be  gathered  from  the  outside,  except  remarks 
on  the  various  properties  which  philosophers  ascribe  to  matter, 
—  length,  breadth,  depth,  and  weight.  The  packet  was  composed 
of  strong  thick  paper,  imperviable  by  the  curious  eyes  of  the 
gossips,  though    they   stared   as   if   they  would    burst   from  their 


SIR   WALTER    SCOTT  13009 

sockets.     The   seal  was  a  deep  and  well-cut  impression  of  arms, 
which  defied  all  tampering. 

^^ 'Od,  lass, '^  said  Mrs.  Shortcake,  weighing  it  in  her  hand,  and 
wishing  doubtless  that  the  too,  too  solid  wax  would  melt  and 
dissolve  itself,  "  I  wad  like  to  ken  what's  in  the  inside  o'  this; 
for  that  Lovel  dings  a'  that  ever  set  foot  on  the  plainstanes  o' 
Fairport, —  naebody  kens  what  to  make  o'  him." 

"  Weel,  weel,  leddies, "  said  the  -postmistress,  **we'se  sit  down 
and  crack  about, —  Baby,  bring  ben  the  tea-water;  muckle  obliged 
to  ye  for  your  cookies,  Mrs.  Shortcake, —  and  we'll  steek  the 
shop,  and  cry  ben  Baby,  and  take  a  hand  at  the  cartes  till  the 
gudeman  comes  hame;  and  then  we'll  try  your  braw  veal  sweet- 
bread that  ye  were  so  kind  as  send  me,  Mrs.  Heukbane. " 

^*  But  winna  ye  first  send  awa  Mr.  Lovel's  letter  ?  '*  said  Mrs. 
Heukbane. 

"  Troth  I  kenna  wha  to  send  wi't  till  the  gudeman  comes 
hame,  for  auld  Caxon  tell'd  me  that  Mr.  Lovel  stays  a'  the  day 
at  Monkbarns;  —  he's  in  a  high  fever  wi'  pu'ing  the  laird  and  Sir 
Arthur  out  o'  sea." 

^^  Silly  auld  doited  carles !  "  said  Mrs.  Shortcake :  **  what  gar'd 
them  gang  to  the  douking  in  a  night  like  yestreen  ? " 

"  I  was  gi'en  to  understand  it  was  auld  Edie  that  saved  them," 
said  Mrs.  Heukbane, —  "Edie  Ochiltree,  the  Blue-Gown,  ye  ken; 
and  that  he  pu'd  the  hale  three  out  of  the  auld  fish -pound,  for 
Monkbarns  had  threepit  on  them  ta  gang  in  till  't  to  see  the  wark 
o'  the  monks  lang  syne." 

"  Hout,  lass,  nonsense!"  answered  the  postmistress:  '*  I'll  tell 
ye  a'  about  it,  as  Caxon  tell'd  it  to  me.  Ye  see.  Sir  Arthur  and 
Miss  Wardour,  and  Mr.  Lovel,  suld  hae  dined  at  Monkbarns — " 

"  But,  Mrs.  Mailsetter,"  again  interrupted  Mrs.  Heukbane, 
"will  ye  no  be  for  sending  awa  this  letter  by  express?  —  there's 
our  powny  and  our  callant  hae  gane  express  for  the  office  or 
now,  and  the  powny  hasna  gane  abune  thirty  mile  the  day; 
Jock  was  sorting  him  up  as  I  came  ower  by." 

"Why,  Mrs.  Heukbane,"  said  the  woman  of  letters,  pursing 
up  her  mouth,  "  ye  ken  my  gudeman  likes  to  ride  the  expresses 
himsell:  we  maun  gie  our  ain  fish-guts  to  our  ain  sea-maws, — 
it's  a  red  half -guinea  to  him  every  time  he  munts  his  mear;  and 
I  daresay  he'll  be  in  sune  —  or  I  dare  to  say,  it's  the  same  thing 
whether  the  gentleman  gets  the  express  this  night  or  early  next 
morning. " 


13010  SIR  WALTER   SCOTT 

^*  Only  that  Mr.  Lovel  will  be  in  town  before  the  express  gaes 
aff,^*  said  Mrs.  Heukbane;  <*  and  where  are  ye  then,  lass?  But 
ye  ken  yere  ain  ways  best.*^ 

"Weel,  weel,  Mrs.  Heukbane,"  answered  Mrs.  Mailsetter,  a 
little  out  of  humor,  and  even  out  of  countenance,  "  I  am  sure  I 
am  never  against  being  neighbor-like,  and  living  and  letting  live, 
as  they  say;  and  since  I  hae  been  sic  a  fule  as  to  show  you  the 
post-office  order — ou,  nae  doubt,  it  maun  be  obeyed.  But  I'll  no 
need  your  callant,  mony  thanks  to  ye:  I'll  send  little  Davie  on 
your  powny,  and  that  will  be  just  five-and-threepence  to  ilka  ane 
o'  us,  ye  ken." 

^^  Davie!  the  Lord  help  ye,  the  bairn's  no  ten  year  auld;  and 
to  be  plain  wi'  ye,  our  powny  reists  a  bit,  and  it's  dooms  sweer 
to  the  road,  and  naebody  can  manage  hiin  but  our  Jock." 

<*  I'm  sorry  for  that,"  answered  the  postmistress  gravely:  ^Mt's 
like  we  maun  wait  then  till  the  gudeman  comes  hame,  after  a'; 
for  I  wadna  like  to  be  responsible  in  trusting  the  letter  to  sic  a 
callant  as  Jock, — our   Davie   belangs  in  a  manner  to  the  office." 

^^Aweel,  aweel,  Mrs.  Mailsetter,  I  see  what  ye  wad  be  at;  but 
an  ye  like  to  risk  the  bairn,  I'll  risk  the  beast." 

Orders  were  accordingly  given.  The  unwilling  pony  was 
brought  out  of  his  bed  of  straw,  and  again  equipped  for  service. 
Davie  (a  leathern  post-bag  strapped  across  his  shoulders)  was 
perched  upon  the  saddle,  with  a  tear  in  his  eye  and  a  switch  in 
his  hand.  Jock  good-naturedly  led  the  animal  out  of  town,  and 
by  the  crack  of  his  whip,  and  the  whoop  and  halloo  of  his  too 
well  known  voice,  compelled  it  to  take  the  road  toward  Monk- 
barns. 

Meanwhile  the  gossips,  like  the  sibyls  after  consulting  their 
leaves,  arranged  and  combined  the  information  of  the  evening; 
which  flew  next  morning  through  a  hundred  channels,  and  in  a 
hundred  varieties,  through  the  world  of  Fairport.  Many,  strange, 
and  inconsistent  were  the  rumors  to  which  their  communica- 
tion and  conjectures  gave  rise.  Some  said  Tennant  &  Co.  were 
broken,  and  that  all  their  bills  had  come  back  protested;  others 
that  they  had  got  a  great  contract  from  government,  and  let- 
ters from  the  principal  merchants  at  Glasgow  desiring  to  have 
shares  upon  a  premium.  One  report  stated  that  Lieutenant 
Taffril  had  acknowledged  a  private  marriage  with  Jenny  Caxon; 
another,  that  he  had  sent  her  a  letter  upbraiding  her  with  the 
lowness  of  her  birth  and  education,  and  bidding  her  an    eternal 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  130 1 1 

adieu.  It  was  generally  rumored  that  Sir  Arthur  Wardour's 
affairs  had  fallen  into  irretrievable  confusion;  and  this  report  was 
only  doubted  by  the  wise  because  it  was  traced  to  Mrs.  Mail- 
setter's  shop, —  a  source  more  famous  for  the  circulation  of  news 
than  for  their  accuracy. 


THE  COVENANTER 
From  <01d  Mortality) 

«My  native  land,  good- night !  *> 

—  Lord  Byron. 

THE  Privy  Council  of  Scotland,  in  whom  the  practice,  since  the 
union  of  the  crowns,  vested  great  judicial  powers,  as  well 
as  the  general  superintendence  of  the  executive  department, 
was  met  in  the  ancient,  dark,  Gothic  room  adjoining  to  the  house 
of  Parliament  in  Edinburgh,  when  General  Grahame  entered  and 
took  his  place  amongst  the  members  at  the  council  table. 

"You  have  brought  us  a  leash  of  game  to-day,  general,''  said 
a  nobleman  of  high  place  amongst  them.  "  Here  is  a  craven  to 
confess,  a  cock  of  the  game  to  stand  at  bay  —  and  what  shall  I 
call  the  third,  general  ?  '* 

"  Without  further  metaphor,  I  will  entreat  your  Grace  to  call 
him  a  person  in  whom  I  am  specially  interested,"  replied  Claver- 
house. 

"And  a  Whig  into  the  bargain  ? "  said  the  nobleman,  lolling 
out  a  tongue  which  was  at  all  times  too  big  for  his  mouth,  and 
accommodating  his  coarse  features  to  a  sneer,  to  which  they 
seemed  to  be  familiar. 

"  Yes,  please  your  Grace,  a  Whig;  as  your  Grace  was  in  1641,** 
replied  Claverhouse,  with  his  usual  appearance  of  imperturbable 
civility. 

"He  has  you  there,  I  think,  my  lord  duke,''  said  one  of  the 
Privy  Councilors. 

"Ay,  ay,"  returned  the  duke,  laughing:  "there's  no  speaking 
to  him  since  Drumclog.  But  come,  bring  in  the  prisoners;  and 
do  you,   Mr.   Clerk,   read  the  record." 

The  clerk  read  forth  a  bond,  in  which  General  Grahame  of 
Claverhouse  and  Lord  Evandale  entered  themselves  securities 
that  Henry  Morton,  younger  of  Milnwood,  should  go  abroad  and 


I30I2  SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

remain  in  foreign  parts  until  his  Majesty's  pleasure  was  further 
known,  in  respect  of  the  said  Henry  Morton's  accession  •  to  the 
late  rebellion;  and  that  under  penalty  of  life  and  limb  to  the 
said  Henry  Morton,  and  of  ten  thousand  marks  to  each  of  his 
securities. 

^*  Do  you  accept  of  the  King's  mercy  upon  these  terms,  Mr. 
Morton  ?  **  said  the  Duke  of  Lauderdale,  who  presided  in  the 
council. 

"I  have  no  other  choice,   my  lord,**  replied  Morton. 

"  Then  subscribe  your  name  in  the  record.  ** 

Morton  did  so  without  reply;  conscious  that  in  the  circum- 
stances of  his  case,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  have  escaped 
more  easily.  Macbriar,  who  was  at  the  same  instant  brought  to 
the  foot  of  the  council  table,  bound  upon  a  chair, —  for  his 
weakness  prevented  him  from  standing, —  beheld  Morton  in  the 
act  of  what  he  accounted  apostasy. 

^*  He  hath  summed  his  defection  by  owning  the  carnal  power 
of  the  tyrant !  **  he  exclaimed  with  a  deep  groan.  ** A  fallen  star ! 
—  a  fallen  star !  ** 

"Hold  your  peace,  sir,**  said  the  duke,  "and  keep  your  ain 
breath  to  cool  your  ain  porridge:  ye'll  find  them  scalding  hot,  I 
promise  you.  Call  in  the  other  fellow,  who  has  some  common- 
sense.     One  sheep  will  leap  the  ditch  when  another  goes  first.** 

Cuddie  was  introduced  unbound,  but  under  the  guard  of  two 
halberdiers,  and  placed  beside  Macbriar  at  the  foot  of  the  table. 
The  poor  fellow  cast  a  piteous  look  around  him,  in  which  were 
mingled  awe  for  the  great  men  in  whose  presence  he  stood,  and 
compassion  for  his  fellow-sufferers,  with  no  small  fear  of  the  per- 
sonal consequences  which  impended  over  himself.  He  made  his 
clownish  obeisances  with  a  double  portion  of  reverence,  and  then 
awaited  the  opening  of  the  awful  scene. 

"  Were  you  at  the  battle  of  Bothwell  Brigg  ?  **  was  the  first 
question  which   was  thundered  in  his  ears. 

Cuddie  meditated  a  denial,  but  had  sense  enough  upon  reflec- 
tion to  discover  that  the  truth  would  be  too  strong  for  him;  so 
he  replied  with  true  Caledonian  indirectness  of  response,  "  I'll  no 
say  but  it  may  be  possible  that  I  might  hae  been  there.** 

"Answer  directly,  you  knave  —  yes  or  no  ?  You  know  you 
were  there.** 

"It  is  no  for  me  to  contradict  your  Lordship's  Grace's  Honor,** 
said  Cuddie. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  ^3° ^3 

«  Once  more,  sir,  were  yon  there  —  yes  or  no?**  said  the  duke 
impatiently. 

«  Dear  stir,"  again  replied  Cuddie,  "how  can  ane  mind  pre- 
ceesely  where  they  hae  been  a'  the  days  o'  their  life  ?  " 

« Speak  out,  you  scoundrel,"  said  General  Dalzell,  "or  I'll 
dash  your  teeth  out  with  my  dudgeon-haft!  Do  you  think  we 
can  stand  here  all  day  to  be  turning  and  dodging  with  you  like 
greyhounds  after  a  hare  ?  ** 

"Aweel,  then,**  said  Cuddie,  "since  naething  else  will  please 
ye,   write  down  that  I  canna  deny  but  I  was  there.** 

"Well,  sir,**  said  the  duke,  "and  do  you  think  that  the  rising 
upon  that  occasion  was  rebellion  or  not  ?  ** 

"I'm  no  just  free  to  gie  my  opinion,  stir,**  said  the  cautious 
captive,  "on  what  might  cost  my  neck;  but  I  doubt  it  will  be 
very  little   better  ** 

«  Better  than  what  ?  ** 

"Just  then  rebellion,  as  your  Honor  ca's  it,**  replied  Cuddie. 

"Well,  sir,  that's  speaking  to  the  purpose,**  replied  his  Grace. 
"And  are  you  content  to  accept  of  the  King's  pardon  for  your 
guilt  as  a  rebel,  and  to  keep  the  Church,  and  pray  for  the 
King  ?  '* 

"  Blithely,  stir,  **  answered  the  unscrupulous  Cuddie ;  "  and  drink 
his  health  into  the  bargain  when  the  ale's  gude.** 

"  Egad !  **  said  the  duke,  "  this  is  a  hearty  cock.  What  brought 
you  into  such  a  scrape,   mine  honest  friend  ?  ** 

"Just  ill  example,  stir,**  replied  the  prisoner,  "and  a  daft 
auld  jade  of  a  mither,   wi'   reference  to  your   Grace's   Honor.** 

"Why,  God  'a'  mercy,  my  friend,**  replied  the  duke,  "take 
care  of  bad  advice  another  time:  I  think  you  are  not  likely  to 
commit  treason  on  your  own  score.  Make  out  his  free  pardon, 
and  bring  forward  the  rogue  in  the  chair.** 

Macbriar  was  then  moved  forward  to  the  post  of  examination. 

"  Were  you  at  the  battle  of  Bothwell  Bridge  ?  **  was  in  like 
manner  demanded  of  him. 

"  I  was,**  answered  the  prisoner,  in  a  bold  and  resolute  tone, 

*  Were  you  armed  ?  ** 

"I  was  not:  I  went  in  my  calling  as  a  preacher  of  God's 
word,  to  encourage  them  that  drew  the  sword  in  his  cause.** 

"  In  other  words,  to  aid  and  abet  the  rebels  ?  **  said  the 
duke. 

"  Thou  hast  spoken  it,**  replied  the  prisoner. 


13014  ^^^  WALTER  SCOTT. 

^'Well  then,^^  continued  the  interrogator,  "let  us  know  if  you 
saw  John  Balfour  of  Burley  among  the  party  ?  —  I  presume  you 
know  him  ?  '* 

"I  bless  God  that  I  do  know  him,>>  replied  Macbriar:  «  he  is  a 
zealous  and  a  sincere  Christian.^* 

"And  when  and  where  did  you  last  see  this  pious  personage  ?  * 
was  the  query  which  immediately  followed. 

"  I  am  here  to  answer  for  myself,  **  said  Macbriar  in  the  same 
dauntless  manner,  "  and  not  to  endanger  others.  '^ 

"We  shall  know/>  said  Dalzell,  "how  to  make  you  find  your 
tongue.  '^ 

"If  you  can  make  him  fancy  himself  in  a  conventicle,'^  an- 
swered Lauderdale,  "  he  will  find  it  without  you.  Come,  laddie, 
speak  while  the  play  is  good:  you're  too  young  to  bear  the  bur- 
den will  be  laid  on  you  else.'' 

"I  defy  you,"  retorted  Macbriar  "This  has  not  been  the 
first  of  my  imprisonments  or  of  my  sufferings;  and  young  as  I 
may  be,  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  know  how  to  die  when  I 
am   called  upon." 

"Ay,  but  there  are  some  things  which  must  go  before  an  easy 
death,  if  you  continue  obstinate,"  said  Lauderdale;  and  rung  a 
small  silver  bell  which  was  placed  before  him  on  the  table. 

A  dark  crimson  curtain,  which  covered  a  sort  of  niche  or 
Gothic  recess  in  the  wall,  rose  at  the  signal,  and  displayed  the 
public  executioner, —  a  tall,  grim,  and  hideous  man,  having  an 
oaken  table  before  him,  on  which  lay  thumb-screws,  and  an  iron 
case  called  the  Scottish  boot,  us^d  in  those  tyrannical  days  to 
torture  accused  persons.  Morton,  who  was  unprepared  for  this 
ghastly  apparition,  started  when  the  curtain  arose;  but  Macbriar's 
nerves  were  more  firm.  He  gazed  upon  the  horrible  apparatus 
with  much  composure;  and  if  a  touch  of  nature  called  the  blood 
from  his  cheek  for  a  second,  resolution  sent  it  back  to  his  brow 
with  greater  energy. 

"  Do  you  know  who  that  man  is  ?  "  said  Lauderdale  in  a  low, 
stern  voice,  almost  sinking  into  a  whisper. 

"He  is,  I  suppose,"  replied  Macbriar,  "the  infamous  execu- 
tioner of  your  bloodthirsty  commands  upon  the  persons  of  God's 
people.  He  and  you  are  equally  beneath  my  regard;  and  I  bless 
God,  I  no  more  fear  what  he  can  inflict  than  what  you  can  com- 
mand. Flesh  and  blood  may  shrink  under  the  sufferings  you  can 
doom  me  to,  and  poor  frail  nature  may  shed  tears  or  send  forth 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  13015 

cries;  but  I  trust  my  soul  is  anchored  firmly  on  the  Rock  of 
Ages.  >> 

"  Do  your  duty, "  said  the  duke  to  the  executioner. 

The  fellow  advanced,  and  asked,  with  a  harsh  and  discordant 
voice,  upon  which  of  the  prisoner's  limbs  he  should  first  employ 
his  engine 

"Let  hirn  choose  for  himself,^*  said  the  duke:  "I  should  like 
to  oblige  him  in  anything  that  is  reasonable.'^ 

"Since  you  leave  it  to  me,"  said  the  prisoner,  stretching  forth 
his  right  leg,  "  take  the  best ;  I  willingly  bestow  it  in  the  cause 
for  which  I  suffer.*' 

The  executioner,  with  the  help  of  his  assistants,  inclosed  the 
leg  and  knee  within  the  tight  iron  boot  or  case;  and  then,  pla- 
cing a  wedge  of  the  same  metal  between  the  knee  and  the  edge 
of  the  machine,  took  a  mallet  in  his  hand,  and  stood  waiting 
for  further  orders.  A  well-dressed  man,  by  profession  a  surgeon, 
placed  himself  by  the  other  side  of  the  prisoner's  chair,  bared 
the  prisoner's  arm,  and  applied  his  thumb  to  the  pulse,  in  order 
to  regulate  the  torture  according  to  the  strength  of  the  patient. 
When  these  preparations  were  made,  the  president  of  the  coun- 
cil repeated  with  the  same  stern  voice  the  question,  "  When  and 
where  did  you  last  see  John  Balfour  of  Burley  ?  *' 

The  prisoner,  instead  of  replying  to  him,  turned  his  eyes 
to  heaven  as  if  imploring  Divine  strength,  and  muttered  a  few 
words,  of  which  the  last  were  distinctly  audible :  "  Thou  hast  said 
thy  people  shall  be  willing  in  the  day  of  thy  power!" 

The  Duke  of  Lauderdale  glanced  his  eye  around  the  coimcil 
as  if  to  collect  their  suffrages;  and  judging  from  their  mute 
signs,  gave  on  his  part  a  nod  to  the  executioner,  whose  mallet 
instantly  descended  on  the  wedge,  and  forcing  it  between  the 
knee  and  the  iron  boot,  occasioned  the  most  exquisite  pain,  as 
was  evident  from  the  flush  which  instantly  took  place  on  the 
brow  and  on  the  cheeks  of  the  sufferer.  The  fellow  then  again 
raised  his  weapon,  and  stood  prepared  to  give  a  second  blow. 

"Will  you  yet  say,"  repeated  the  Duke  of  Lauderdale,  "where 
and  when  you  last  parted  from  Balfour  of  Burley  ?  " 

"You  have  my  answer,"  said  the  sufferer  resolutely;  and  the 
second  blow  fell.  The  third  and  fourth  succeeded;  but  at  the 
fifth,  when  a  larger  wedge  had  been  introduced,  the  prisoner  set 
up  a  scream  of  agony. 

Morton,  whose  blood  boiled  within  him  at  witnessing  such 
cruelty,  could  bear  no  longer;  and  although  unarmed  and  himself 


I30I6 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


in  great  danger,  was  springing  forward,  when  Claverhouse,  who 
observed  his  emotion,  withheld  him  by  force,  laying  one  hand  on 
his  arm  and  the  other  on  his  mouth,  while  he  whispered,  ^*  For 
God's  sake,  think  where  you  are!  *^ 

This  movement,  fortunately  for  him,  was  observed  by  no 
other  of  the  councilors,  whose  attention  was  engaged  with  the 
dreadful   scene  before  them. 

"  He  is  gone,  ^^  said  the  surgeon ;  **  he  has  fainted,  my  lords, 
and  human  nature  can  endure  no  more.^' 

"Release  him,'^  said  the  duke;  and  added,  turning  to  Dalzell, 
*he  will  make  an  old  proverb  good,  for  he'll  scarce  ride  to-day, 
though  he  has  had  his  boots  on.  I  suppose  we  must  finish  with 
him  ? » 

"Ay,  dispatch  his  sentence,  and  have  done  with  him:  we  have 
plenty  of  drudgery  behind.  ^^ 

Strong  waters  and  essences  were  busily  employed  to  recall  the 
senses  of  the  unfortunate  captive:  and  when  his  first  faint  gasps 
intimated  a  return  of  sensation,  the  duke  pronounced  sentence  of 
death  upon  him,  as  a  traitor  taken  in  the  act  of  open  rebellion, 
and  adjudged  him  to  be  carried  from  the  bar  to  the  common 
place  of  execution,  and  there  hanged  by  the  neck;  his  head  and 
hands  to  be  stricken  off  after  death,  and  disposed  of  according 
to  the  pleasure  of  the  Council,  and  all  and  sundry  his  movable 
goods  and  gear  escheat  and  inbrought  to  his  Majesty's  use. 

"  Doomster,  **  he  continued,   "  repeat  the  sentence  to  the  pris- 


oner. *^ 


The  office  of  doomster  was  in  those  days,  and  till  a  much 
later  period,  held  by  the  executioner  in  commendam  with  his  ordi- 
nary functions.  The  duty  consisted  in  reciting  to  the  unhappy 
criminal  the  sentence  of  the  law  as  pronounced  by  the  judge, 
which  acquired  an  additional  and  horrid  emphasis  from  the  recol- 
lection that  the  hateful  personage  by  whom  it  was  uttered  was 
to  be  the  agent  of  the  cruelties  he  announced.  Macbriar  had 
scarce  understood  the  purport  of  the  words  as  first  pronounced 
by  the  lord  president  of  the  Council:  but  he  was  sufficiently 
recovered  to  listen  and  to  reply  to  the  sentence  when  uttered  by 
the  harsh  and  odious  voice  of  the  ruffian  who  was  to  execute  it; 
and  at  the  last  awful  words,  "And  this  I  pronounce  for  doom,^^ 
he  answered  boldlv:  — 

"  My  lords,  I  thank  you  for  the  only  favor  I  looked  for,  or 
would  accept,  at  your  hands;  namely,  that  you  have  sent  the 
crushed  and  maimed  carcass,  which  has  this  day  sustained  your 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  1 30 17 

cruelty,  to  this  hasty  end.  It  were  indeed  little  to  me  whether 
I  perish  on  the  gallows  or  in  the  prison-house;  but  if  death, 
following  close  on  what  I  have  this  day  suffered,  had  found  me 
in  my  cell  of  darkness  and  bondage,  many  might  have  lost  the 
sight  how  a  Christian  man  can  suffer  in  the  good  cause.  For 
the  rest,  I  forgive  you,  my  lords,  for  what  you  have  appointed 
and  I  have  sustained.  And  why  should  I  not  ?  Ye  send  me  to 
a  happy  exchange, —  to  the  company  of  angels  and  the  spirits 
of  the  just,  for  that  of  frail  dust  and  ashes.  Ye  send  me  from 
darkness  into  day  —  from  mortahty  to  immortality  —  and  in  a 
word,  from  earth  to  heaven!  If  the  thanks,  therefore,  and  par- 
don of  a  dying  man  can  do  you  good,  take  them  at  my  hand, 
and  may  your   last  moments   be  as  happy  as  mine !  " 

As  he  spoke  thus,  with  a  countenance  radiant  with  joy  and 
triumph,  he  was  withdrawn  by  those  who  had  brought  hiin  into 
the  apartment,  and  executed  within  half  an  hour,  dying  with  the 
same  enthusiastic  firmness  which  his  whole  life  had  evinced. 


THE  MEETING   OF   JEANIE   AND   EFFIE   DEANS 

From  <The  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian  > 

« Sweet  sister,  let  me  live! 
What  sin  you  do  to  save  a  brother's  life, 
Nature  dispenses  with  the  deed  so  far 
That  it  becomes  a  virtue. >> 

—  <  Measure  for  Measure.* 

JEANIE    Deans   was   admitted    into    the    jail   by    Ratcliffe.     This 
fellow,  as  void  of  shame  as  honesty,  as  he  opened  the  now 
trebly  secured  door,  asked  her,  with  a  leer  which  made  her 
shudder,  whether  she  remembered  him  ? 

A  half-pronounced  timid  "  No  **  was  her  answer. 
"What!    not   remember   moonlight,  and    Muschat's   Cairn,  and 
Rob  and    Rat  ?  *^    said   he    with    the   same   sneer.      "  Your  memory 
needs  redding  up,  my  jo.** 

If  Jeanie's  distresses  had  admitted  of  aggravation,  it  must  have 
been  to  find  her  sister  under  the  charge  of  siich  a  profligate  as 
this  man.  He  was  not,  indeed,  without  something  of  good  to 
balance  so  much  that  was  evil  in  his  character  and  habits.  In 
his  misdemeanors  he  had  never  been  bloodthirsty  or  cruel ;  and 
in   his   present    occupation,    he    had    shown    himself,    in    a   certain 


I301.S  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

degree,  accessible  to  touches  of  humanity.  But  these  good  qual- 
ities were  unknown  to  Jeanie;  who,  remembering  the  scene  at 
Muschat's  Cairn,  could  scarce  find  voice  to  acquaint  him  that  she 
had  an  order  from  Bailie  Middleburgh,  permitting  her  to  see  her 
sister. 

**  I  ken  that  fu'  weel,  my  bonny  doo ;  mair  by  token,  I  have  a 
special  charge  to  stay  in  the  ward  with  you  a'  the  time  ye  are 
thegither.  ^^ 

"  Must  that  be  sae  ?  '^  asked  Jeanie  with  an  imploring  voice. 

"  Hout,  ay,  hinny,  '^  replied  the  turnkey ;  "  and  what  the  waur 
will  you  and  your  tittie  be  of  Jim  Ratcliffe  hearing  what  ye  hae 
to  say  to  ilk  other  ?  Deil  a  word  ye'll  say  that  will  gar  him  ken 
your  kittle  sex  better  than  he  kens  them  already;  and  another 
thing  is,  that  if  ye  dinna  speak  o'  breaking  the  Tolbooth,  deil  a 
word  will  I  tell  ower,  either  to  do  ye  good  or  ill." 

Thus  saying,  Ratcliffe  marshaled  her  the  way  to  the  apart- 
ment where  Effie  was  confined. 

Shame,  fear,  and  grief,  had  contended  for  mastery  in  the  poor 
prisoner's  bosom  during  the  whole  morning,  while  she  had  looked 
forward  to  this  meeting;  but  when  the  door  opened,  all  gave  way 
to  a  confused  and  strange  feeling  that  had  a  tinge  of  joy  in  it, 
as  throwing  herself  on  her  sister's  neck,  she  ejaculated,  "  My  dear 
Jeanie !  my  dear  Jeanie !  it's  lang  since  I  hae  seen  ye. "  Jeanie 
returned  the  embrace  with  an  earnestness  that  partook  almost 
of  rapture;  but  it  was  only  a  flitting  emotion,  like  a  sunbeam 
unexpectedly  penetrating  betwixt  the  clouds  of  a  tempest,  and 
obscured  almost  as  soon  as  visible.  The  sisters  walked  together 
to  the  side  of  the  pallet  bed  and  sat  down  side  by  side,  took 
hold  of  each  other's  hands,  and  looked  each  other  in  the  face,  but 
without  speaking  a  word.  In  this  posture  they  remained  for  a 
minute,  while  the  gleam  of  joy  graaually  faded  from  their  feat- 
ures, and  gave  way  to  the  most  intense  expression,  first  of  melan- 
choly,  and  then  of  agony;  till,  throwing  themselves  again  into 
each  other's  arms,  they,  to  use  the  language  of  Scripture,  lifted  up 
their  voices  and  wept  bitterly. 

Even  the  hard-hearted  turnkey,  who  had  spent  his  life  in 
scenes  calculated  to  stifle  both  conscience  and  feeling,  could  not 
witness  this  scene  withoiit  a  toiich  of  human  sympathy.  It  was 
shown  in  a  trifling  action,  but  which  had  more  delicacy  in  it  than 
seemed  to  belong  to  Ratcliffe's  character  and  station.  The  un- 
glazed  window  of  the  miserable  chamber  was  open,  and  the  beams 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  1 30 1 9 

of  a  bright  sim  fell  right  upon  the  bed  where  the  sufferers  were 
seated.  With  a  gentleness  that  had  something  of  reverence  in 
it,  Ratcliffe  partly  closed  the  shutter,  and  seemed  thus  to  throw  a 
veil  over  a  scene  so  sorrowful. 

«Ye  are  ill,  Efhe,"  were  the  first  words  Jeanie  could  utter; 
**ye  are  very  ill. '^ 

^^  Oh,  what  wad  I  gie  to  be  ten  times  waur,  Jeanie !  *^  was  the 
reply;  ^^what  wad  I  gie  to  be  cauld  dead  afore  the  ten  o'clock 
bell  the  morn!  And  our  father  —  but  I  am  liis  bairn  nae  langer 
now —  Oh,  I  hae  nae  friend  left  in  the  warld  — Oh  that  I  were 
lying  dead  at  my  mother's  side,  in  Newbattle  kirk-yard !  '^ 

<^  Hout,  lassie,  '*  said  Ratcliffe,  willing  to  show  the  interest 
which  he  absolutely  felt:  "  dinna  be  sae  dooms  doon-hearted  as  a' 
that, —  there's  mony  a  tod  hunted  that's  na  killed.  Advocate 
Langtale  has  brought  folk  through  waur  snappers  than  a'  this, 
and  there's  no  a  cleverer  agent  than  Nichil  Novit  e'er  drew  a  bill 
of  suspension.  Hanged  or  unhanged,  they  are  weel  aff  has  sic  an 
agent  and  counsel:  ane's  sure  o'  fair  play.  Ye  are  a  bonny  lass, 
too,  and  ye  wad  busk  up  your  cockernony  a  bit;  and  a  bonny 
lass  will  find  favor  wi'  judge  and  jury,  when  they  would  strap  up 
a  grewsome  carle  like  me  for  the  fifteenth  part  of  a  flea's  hide 
and  tallow,  d — n  them.** 

To  this  homely  strain  of  consolation  the  mourners  returned 
no  answer;  indeed,  thv-y  were  so  much  lost  in  their  own  sorrows 
as  to  have  become  insensible  of  Ratcliffe's  presence. 

^' O  Effie,**  said  her  elder  sister,  "how  could  you  conceal  your 
situation  from  me  ?  O  woman,  had  I  deserved  this  at  your  hand  ? 
Had  ye  spoke  but  ae  word  —  sorry  we  might  hae  been,  and 
shamed  we  might  hae  been,  but  this  awfu'  dispensation  had  never 
come  ower  us.** 

"And  what  gudc  wad  that  hae  dune  ?  **  answered  the  prisoner. 
"  Na,  na,  Jeanie,  a'  was  ower  when  ance  I  forgot  what  I  promised 
when  I  faulded  down  the  leaf  of  my  Bible.  See,**  she  said,  pro- 
ducing the  sacred  volume,  "  the  book  opens  aye  at  the  place  o' 
itsell.     Oh,  see,  Jeanie,  what  a  fearfu'  Scripture !  ** 

Jeanie  took  her  sister's  Bible,  and  found  that  the  fatal  mark 
was  made  at  this  impressive  text  in  the  book  of  Job :  "  He  hath 
stripped  me  of  my  glory,  and  taken  the  crown  from  my  head. 
He  hath  destroyed  me  on  every  side,  and  I  am  gone.  And  mine 
hope  hath  he  removed  like  a  tree.*^ 


I3020  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

*^  Isna  that  ower  true  a  doctrine  ?  '*  said  the  prisoner :  *  isna 
my  crown,  my  honor,  removed  ?  And  what  am  I  but  a  poor, 
wasted,  wan-thriven  tree,  dug  up  by  the  roots,  and  flung  out  to 
waste  in  the  highway,  that  man  and  beast  may  tread  it  under 
foot  ?  I  thought  o'  the  bonny  bit  thorn  that  our  father  rooted  out 
o'  the  yard  last  May,  when  it  had  a'  the  flush  o'  blossoms  on  it; 
and  then  it  lay  in  the  court  till  the  beasts  had  trod  them  a'  to 
pieces  wi'  their  feet.  I  little  thought,  vi^hen  I  was  wae  for  the 
bit  silly  green  bush  and  its  flowers,  that  I  was  to  gang  the-  same 
gate  mysell.-*^ 

"  Oh,  if  ye  had  spoken  ae  word, ''  again  sobbed  Jeanie, —  ^^  if  I 
were  free  to  swear  that  ye  had  said  but  ae  word  of  how  it  stude 
wi'  ye,  they  couldna  hae  touched  your  life  this  day.  ^* 

'^  Could  they  na  ?  '^  said  Effie,  with  something  like  awakened 
interest, — for  life  is  dear  even  to  those  who  feel  it  is  a  burden: 
*'  wha  tauld  ye  that,  Jeanie  ?  ^* 

*^  It  was  ane  that  kend  what  he  was  saying  weel  eneugh,** 
replied  Jeanie,  who  had  a  natural  reluctance  at  mentioning  even 
the  name  of  her  sister's  seducer. 

^*Wha  was  it?  —  I  conjure  you  to  tell  me,^^  said  Eflie,  seating 
herself  upright.  "  Wha  could  tak  interest  in  sic  a  cast-by  as  I 
am  now  ?     Was  it  —  was  it  /lim  ?  * 

"  Hout,  '^  said  Ratcliffe,  "  what  signifies  keeping  the  poor  lassie 
in  a  swither  ?  I'se  uphaud  it's  been  Robertson  that  learned  ye 
that  doctrine  when  ye  saw  him  at  Muschat's  Cairn.  *^ 

**  Was  it  him  ?  '^  said  Effie,  catching  eagerly  at  his  words ;  "  was 
it  him,  Jeanie,  indeed  ?  Oh,  I  see  it  was  him :  poor  lad,  and 
I  was  thinking  his  heart  was  as  hard  as  the  nether  millstane, — 
and  him  in  sic  danger  on  his  ain  part, — poor  George!" 

Somewhat  indignant  at  this  burst  of  tender  feeling  toward  the 
author  of  her  misery,  Jeanie  could  not  help  exclaiming,  "  O  Effie, 
how  can  ye  speak  that  gate  of  sic  a  man  as  that  ? " 

**We  maun  forgie  our  enemies,  ye  ken,"  said  poor  Effie, 
with  a  timid  look  and  a  subdued  voice ,  for  her  conscience  told  her 
what  a  different  character  the  feelings  with  which  she  regarded 
her  seducer  bore,  compared  with  the  Christian  charity  under 
which    she    attempted    to   veil    it. 

"And  ye  hae  suffered  a'  this  for  him,  and  ye  can  think  of 
loving  him  still  ? "  said  her  sister,  in  a  voice  betwixt  pity  and 
blame. 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT  13021 

*Love  him!"  answered  Effie;  **  if  I  hadna  loved  as  woman 
seldom  loves,  I  hadna  been  within  these  wa's  this  day;  and  trew 
ye  that  love  sic  as  mine  is  lightly  forgotten  ?  —  Na,  na !  ye  may 
hew  down  the  tree,  but  ye  canna  change  its  bend;  —  and  O 
Jeanie,  if  ye  wad  do  good  to  me  at  this  moment,  tell  me  every 
word  that  he  said,  and  whether  he  was  sorry  for  poor  Effie  or 
no!» 

"  What  needs  I  tell  ye  onything  about  it  ? "  said  Jeanie.  **  Ye 
may  be  sure  he  had  ower  muckle  to  do  to  save  himsell,  to  speak 
lang  or  muckle  about  onybody  beside." 

^*  That's  no  true,  Jeanie,  though  a  saunt  had  said  it,"  replied 
Effie,  with  a  sparkle  of  her  former  lively  and  irritable  temper. 
^*  But  ye  dinna  ken,  though  I  do,  how  far  he  pat  his  life  in 
venture  to  save  mine."  And  looking  at  Ratcliffe,  she  checked 
herself  and   was   silent. 

^*  I  fancy,"  said  Ratcliffe,  with  one  of  his  familiar  sneers,  ^*the 
lassie  thinks  that  naebody  has  een  but  hersell.  Didna  I  see  when 
Gentle  Geordie  was  seeking  to  get  other  folk  out  of  the  Tolbooth 
forby  Jock  Porteous  ?  but  ye  are  of  my  mind,  hinny, — better 
sit  and  rue  than  flit  and  rue.  Ye  needna  look  in  my  face  sae 
amazed.      I    ken   mair    things    than    that,   maybe." 

"  O  my  God !  my  God ! "  said  Effie,  springing  up  and  throwing 
herself  down  on  her  knees  before  him,  "  d'ye  ken  where  they 
hae  putten  my  bairn  ?  —  O  my  bairn !  my  bairn !  the  poor  sackless 
innocent  new-born  wee  ane  —  bone  of  my  bone,  and  flesh  of  my 
flesh!  O  man,  if  ye  wad  e'er  deserve  a  portion  in  heaven,  or  a 
broken-hearted  creature's  blessing  upon  earth,  tell  me  where  they 
hae  put  my  bairn  —  the  sign  of  my  shame  and  the  partner  of  my 
suffering!  tell  me  wha  has  taen  't  away,  or  what  they  hae  dune 
wi't!" 

*^  Hout  tout, "  said  the  turnkey,  endeavoring  to  extricate  him- 
self from  the  firm  grasp  with  which  she  held  him,  "that's  taking 
me  at  my  word  wi'  a  witness —  Bairn,  quo'  she?  How  the  deil 
suld  I  ken  onything  of  your  bairn,  huzzy  ?  Ye  maim  ask  that 
of  auld  Meg  Murdockson,  if  ye  dinna  ken  ower  muckle  about  it 
yoursell. " 

As  his  answer  destroyed  the  wild  and  vague  hope  which  had 
suddenly  gleamed  upon  her,  the  unhappy  prisoner  let  go  her  hold 
of  his  coat,  and  fell  with  her  face  on  the  pavement  of  the  apart- 
ment in  a  strong  convulsion  fit. 


1^022  SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

Jeanie  Deans  possessed,  with  her  excellently  clear  understand- 
ing, the  concomitant  advantage  of  promptitude  of  spirit,  even  in 
the  extremity  of  distress. 

She  did  not  suffer  herself  to  be  overcome  by  her  own  feelings 
of  exquisite  sorrow,  but  instantly  applied  herself  to  her  sister's 
relief,  with  the  readiest  remedies  which  circumstances  afforded; 
and  which,  to  do  Ratcliffe  justice,  he  showed  himself  anxious  to 
suggest,  and  alert  in  procuring.  He  had  even  the  delicacy  to 
withdraw  to  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room,  so  as  to  render  his 
official  attendance  upon  them  as  little  intrusive  as  possible,  when 
Efhe  was  composed  enough  again  to  resume  her  conference  with 
her  sister. 

The  prisoner  once  more,  in  the  most  earnest  and  broken  tones, 
conjured  Jeanie  to  tell  her  the  particulars  of  the  conference  with 
Robertson;  and  Jeanie  felt  it  was  impossible  to  refuse  her  this 
gratification. 

"Do  ye  mind,  ^^  she  said,  "  Effie,  when  ye  were  in  the  fever 
before  we  left  Woodend,  and  how  angry  your  mother,  that's  now 
in  a  better  place,  was  wi'  me  for  gieing  ye  milk  and  water  to 
drink,  because  ye  grat  for  it  ?  Ye  were  a  bairn  then,  and  ye  are 
a  woman  now,  and  should  ken  better  than  ask  what  canna  but 
hurt  you;  but  come  weal  or  woe,  I  canna  refuse  ye  onything 
that  ye  ask   me  wi'   the  tear  in  your  ee.'^ 

Again  Effie  threw  herself  into  her  arms,  and  kissed  her  cheek 
and  forehead,  murmuring,  "  Oh,  if  ye  kend  how  long  it  is  since  I 
heard  his  name  mentioned!  —  if  ye  but  kend  how  muckle  good 
it  does  me  but  to  ken  onything  o'  him  that's  like  goodness  or 
kindness,  ye  wadna  wonder  that  I  wish  to  hear  o'  him !  '^ 

Jeanie  sighed,  and  commenced  her  narrative  of  all  that  had 
passed  betwixt  Robertson  and  her,  making  it  as  brief  as  possible. 
Effie  listened  in  breathless  anxiety,  holding  her  sister's  hand  in 
hers,  and  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  upon  her  face,  as  if  devour- 
ing every  word  she  uttered.  The  interjections  of  "Poor  fellow,** 
"Poor  George,*'  which  escaped  in  whispers  and  betwixt  sighs, 
were  the  only  sounds  with  which  she  interrupted  the  story. 
When    it    was    finished    she    made    a   long    pause. 

"And  this  was  his  advice  ?  **  were  the  first  words  she  uttered. 

"Just  sic  as  I  hae  tell'd  ye,**  replied  her  sister. 

"And  he  wanted  you  to  say  something  to  yon  folks,  that  wad 
save  my  young  life  ?  ** 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT  13023 

«He  wanted,*^  answered  Jeanie,   <<that  I  suld  be  man-sworn.* 

"And  you  tauld  him,*  said  Effie,  "that  ye  wadna  hear  o'  com- 
ing between  me  and  the  death  that  I  am  to  die,  and  me  no 
aughten  years  auld  yet  ?  * 

"  I  told  him,  *  rephed  Jeanie,  who  now  trembled  at  the  turn 
which  her  sister's  reflection  seemed  about  to  take,  "that  I  daured 
na  swear  to  an  untruth.* 

"And  what  d'ye  ca'  an  untruth  ?  *  said  Effie,  again  showing  a 
touch  of  her  former  spirit.  "Ye  are  muckle  to  blame,  lass,  if  ye 
think  a  mother  would,  or  could,  murder  her  ain  bairn.  Murder! 
—  I  wad  hae  laid  down  my  life  just  to  see  a  blink  o'  its  ee !  * 

"I  do  believe,*  said  Jeanie,  "that  ye  are  as  innocent  of  sic  a 
purpose  as  the  new-born  babe  itsell.* 

"I  am  glad  ye  do  me  that  justice,*  said  Effie  haughtily:  "it's 
whiles  the  faut  of  very  good  folk  like  you,  Jeanie,  that  they  think 
a'  the  rest  of  the  warld  are  as  bad  as  the  warst  temptations  can 
make  them.* 

"I  didna  deserve  this  frae  ye,  Effie,*  said  her  sister,  sobbing, 
and  feeling  at  once  the  injustice  of  the  reproach,  and  compassion 
for  the  state  of  mind  which  dictated  it. 

"Maybe  no,  sister,*  said  Effie.  "But  ye  are  angry  because  I 
love  Robertson.  How  can  I  help  losing  him,  that  loves  me  better 
than  body  and  soul  baith ! — Here  he  put  his  life  in  a  niffer,  to 
break  the  prison  to  let  me  out;  and  sure  am  I,  had  it  stude  wi' 
him  as  it  stands  wi'  you  —  *     Here  she  paused  and  was  silent. 

"Oh,  if  it  stude  wi'  me  to  save  ye  wi'  risk  of  viy  life!*  said 
Jeanie. 

"Ay,  lass,*  said  her  sister,  "that's  lightly  said,  but  no  sae 
lightly  credited,  frae  ane  that  winna  ware  a  word  for  me;  and  if 
it  be  a  wrang  word,  ye'll  hae  time  eneugh  to  repent  o't.  * 

"  But  that  word  is  a  grievous  sin,  and  it's  a  deeper  offense 
when  it's  a  sin  willfully  and  presumptuously  committed.* 

"Weel,  weel,  Jeanie,*  said  Effie,  "I  mind  a'  about  the  sins  o' 
presumption  in  the  questions, —  we'll  speak  nae  mair  about  this 
matter,  and  ye  may  save  your  breath  to  say  your  carritch;  and 
for  me,  I'll  soon  has  nae  breath  to  waste  on  onybody.* 


1^024  ^^^    WALTER    SCOTT 

A  ROYAL   RIVAL 
From  <Kenilworth> 

Have  you  not  seen  the  partridge  quake, 
Viewing  the  hawk  approaching  nigh  ? 

She  cuddles  close  beneath  the  brake, 
Afraid  to  sit,  afraid  to  fly. 

—  Prior. 

IT  CHANCED  upon  that  memorable  morning,  that  one  of  the  ear- 
liest of  the  huntress  train  who  appeared  from  her  chamber  in 
full  array  for  the  chase  was  the  princess  for  whom  all  these 
pleasures  were  instituted,  England's  Maiden  Queen.  I  know  not 
if  it  were  by  chance,  or  out  of  the  befitting  courtesy  due  to  a 
mistress  by  whom  he  was  so  much  honored,  that  she  had  scarcely 
made  one  step  beyond  the  threshold  of  her  chamber  ere  Leicester 
was  by  her  side;  and  proposed  to  her,  until  the  preparations  for 
the  chase  had  been  completed,  to  view  the  pleasance,  and  the 
gardens  which  it   connected  with   the   castle-yard. 

To  this  new  scene  of  pleasures  they  walked,  the  earl's  arm 
affording  his  sovereign  the  occasional  support  which  she  required, 
where  flights  of  steps,  then  a  favorite  ornament  in  a  garden, 
conducted  them  from  terrac^  to  terrace,  and  from  parterre  to 
parterre.  The  ladies  in  attendance  —  gifted  with  prudence,  or 
endowed  perhaps  with  the  amiable  desire  of  acting  as  they  would 
be  done  by  —  did  not  conceive  their  duty  to  the  Queen's  person 
required  them,  though  they  lost  not  sight  of  her,  to  approach  so 
near  as  to  share,  or  perhaps  disturb,  the  conversation  betwixt  the 
Queen  and  the  earl,  who  was  not  only  her  host  but  also  her  most 
trusted,  esteemed,  and  favored  servant.  They  contented  them- 
selves with  admiring  the  grace  of  this  illustrious  couple,  whose 
robes  of  state  were  now  exchanged  for  hunting-suits  almost 
equally  magnificent. 

Elizabeth's  silvan  dress,  which  was  of  a  pale-blue  silk,  with 
silver  lace  and  aiguillettes,  approached  in  form  to  that  of  the 
ancient  amazons;  and  was  therefore  well  suited  at  once  to  her 
height,  and  to  the  dignity  of  her  mien,  which  her  conscious  rank 
and  long  habits  of  authority  had  rendered  in  some  degree  too 
masculine  to  be  seen  to  the  best  advantage  in  ordinary  female 
weeds.  Leicester's  hunting-suit  of  Lincoln  green,  richly  embroi- 
dered with  gold,  and  crossed  by  the  gay  baldric,  which  sustained 
a  bugle-horn,  and   a  wood  knife  instead  of  a  sword,  became    its 


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SIR  IV ALTER  SCOTT, 

Reduced  facsimile  of  manuscript  of  parL  of  fourth  chapter  of 

KENILWORTH. 

Upper  half  of  page.  In  the  British  Museum. 

TRANSCRIPTION    OF    THE    MANUSCRIPT. 

Yes  such  a  thing  as  thou  wouldst  make  of  me,  might  just  be  suspected  of  man- 
hood enough  to  squire  a  proud  dame-citizen  to  the  lecture  at  Saint  Antolin's,  and 
quarrel  in  her  cause  with  any  flat-cap'd  thread-maker  that  would  take  the  wall  of  her. 
He  must  rufle  it  in  another  sort  that  would  walk  to  court  in  a  nobleman's  train."  "Oh, 
content  you,  sir,"  replied  Foster,  "  There  is  a  change  since  you  knew  the  English 
and  there  are  those  who  can  hold  their  way  through  the  boldest  courses,  and  the 
most  secret,  and  yet  never  a  swaggering  word  or  an  oath  or  a  profane  word  in  their 
conversation."  "  That  is  to  say,"  replied  Lambourne,  "  they  are  in  a  trading  copart- 
nery, do  the  devil's  business  without  mentioning  his  name  in  the  firm?  —  Well,  1  will 
do  my  best  to  counterfeit  rather  than  lose  ground  in  this  new  world,  since  thou 
sayest  it  is  so  precise.  But,  Anthony,  what  is  the  name  of  this  nobleman,  in  whose 
service  I  am  to  turn  hypocrite?"  "Aha!  Master  Michael,  are  you  there  with  your 
bears?  "  said  Foster,  with  a  grim  smile;  "  and  is  thii  the  knowledge  you  pretend  of 
my  concernments?  —  How  know  you  now  tiiere  is  such  a  Person  in  rerum  natura. 
and  that  I  have  not  been  putting  a  jape  upon  you  all  this  time?"  "Thou  put  a 
jape  on  me,  thou  sodden-brained  gull?"  answered  Lambourne,  nothing  daunted; 
"  why,  dark  and  muddy  as  thou  think'st  thyself,  I  would  engage  in  a  day's  space  to 
see  as  clear  through  thee  and  thy  concernments,  as  thou  call'st  them,  as  through  the 
filthy  horn  of  an  old  stable  lanthorn." — At  this  moment  their  conversation  was 
interrupted  by  a  scream  from  the  next  apartment. — "  By  the  holy  cross  of  Abingdon," 
said  Anthony  Foster,  forgetting  his  protestantism  in  his  alarm,  "  I  am  a  ruined 
man!  "  So  saying,  he  rushed  into  the  apartment  whence  the  scream  issued,  followed 
by  Michael  Lambourne.  But  to  account  for  the  sounds,  which  interrupted  their 
conversation,  it  is  necessary  to  recede  a  little  way  in  our  narrative.  N.  L. —  It  has 
been  already  observed,  that  when  Lambourne  followed  Foster  into  the  Library,  they 
left  Tressilian  alone  in  the  ancient  parlour.  His  dark  eye  followed  them  forth 
of  the  apartment  with  a  glance  of  contempr,  a  part  of  which  his  mind  instantly  trans- 
ferred to  himself  for  having  stooped  to  be  even  for  a  moment  their  familiar  com- 
jianion.  "  These  are  the  associates,  Amy  " —  it  was  thus  he  communed  with  himself, — 
"  to  which  thy  cruel  levity  —  thine  unthinking  and  most  unmerited  falsehood  has 
condemned  him,  of   whom  his  friends  once  hoped  far  other  things  and  who  now.  .  .  . 


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SIR   WALTER  SCOTT  13025 

master,  as  did  his  other  vestments  of  court  or  of  war.  For  such 
were  the  perfections  of  his  form  and  mien,  that  Leicester  was 
always  supposed  to  be  seen  to  the  greatest  advantage  in  the  char- 
acter and  dress  which  for  the  time  he  represented  or  wore. 

The  conversation  of  Elizabeth  and  the  favorite  earl  has  not 
reached  us  in  detail.  But  those  who  watched  at  some  distance 
(and  the  eyes  of  courtiers  and  court  ladies  are  right  sharp)  were 
of  opinion  that  on  no  occasion  did  the  dignity  of  Elizabeth,  in 
gesture  and  motion,  seem  so  decidedly  to  soften  away  into  a 
mien  expressive  of  indecision  and  tenderness.  Her  step  was  not 
only  sloW;  but  even  unequal,  a  thing  most  unwonted  in  her  car- 
riage; her  looks  seemed  bent  on  the  ground,  and  there  was  a 
timid  disposition  to  withdraw  from  her  companion,  which  external 
gesture  in  females  often  indicates  exactly  the  opposite  tendency 
in  the  secret  mind.  The  Duchess  of  Rutland,  who  ventured 
nearest,  was  even  heard  to  aver  that  she  discerned  a  tear  in 
Elizabeth's  eye,  and  a  blush  on  the  cheek ;  and  still  further,  "  She 
bent  her  looks  on  the  ground  to  avoid  mine,^^  said  the  duchess; 
*  she  who,  in  her  ordinary  mood,  could  look  down  a  lion,'*  To 
what  conclusion  these  symptoms  led  is  sufficiently  evident;  nor 
were  they  probably  entirely  groundless.  The  progress  of  pri- 
vate conversation  betwixt  two  persons  of  different  sexes  is  often 
decisive  of  their  fate,  and  gives  it  a  turn  very  different  perhaps 
from  what  they  themselves  anticipated.  Gallantry  becomes  min- 
gled with  conversation,  and  affection  and  passion  come  gradually 
to  mix  with  gallantry.  Nobles  as  well  as  shepherd  swains  will, 
in  such  a  trying  moment,  say  more  than  they  intended;  and 
queens,  like  village   maidens,  will  listen  longer  than  they  should. 

Horses  in  the  mean  while  neighed,  and  champed  the  bits  with 
impatience  in  the  base-court;  hounds  yelled  in  their  couples,  and 
yeomen,  rangers,  and  prickers  lamented  the  exhaling  of  the  dew, 
which  would  prevent  the  scent  from  lying.  But  Leicester  had 
another  chase  in  view:  or,  to  speak  more  justly  toward  him,  had 
become  engaged  in  it  without  premeditation,  as  the  high-spirited 
hunter  which  follows  the  cry  of  the  hounds  that  hath  crossed  his 
path  by  accident.  The  Queen  —  an  accomplished  and  handsome 
woman,  the  pride  of  England,  the  hope  of  France  and  Holland, 
and  the  dread  of  Spain  —  had  probably  listened  with  more  than 
usual  favor  to  that  mixture  of  romantic  gallantry  with  which  she 
always  loved  to  be  addressed;  and  the  earl  had,  in  vanity,  in 
ambition,  or  in  both,  thrown  in  more  and  more  of  that  delicious 


13026  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

ingredient,   until    his    importunity    became    the   language  of   love 
itself.    • 

**  No,  Dudley,*^  said  Elizabeth,  yet  it  was  with  broken  accents, 
—  ^^  no,  I  must  be  the  mother  of  my  people.  Other  ties,  that 
make  the  lowly  maiden  happy,  are  denied  to  her  sovereign —  No, 
Leicester,  urge  it  no  more —  Were  I  as  others,  free  to  seek  my 
own  happiness — then,  indeed  —  but  it  cannot  —  cannot  be. — Delay 
the   chase  —  delay   it  for  half  an   hour  —  and  leave  me,  my  lord. '^ 

"How  —  leave  you,  madam  ! '*  said  Leicester.  "Has  my  mad- 
ness offended  you  ?  ^^ 

"No,  Leicester,  not  so!"  answered  the  Queen  hastily;  "but 
.it  is  madness,  and  must  not  be  repeated.  Go  —  but  go  not  far 
from  hence;    and  meantime  let  no  one   intrude   on  my  privacy." 

While  she  spoke  thus,  Dudley  bowed  deeply,  and  retired  with 
a  slow  and  melancholy  air.  The  Queen  stood  gazing  after  him, 
and  murmured  to  herself,  "  Were '  it  possible  —  were  it  but  possi- 
ble!—  But  no  —  no — Elizabeth  must  be  the  wife  and  mother  of 
England  alone." 

As  she  spoke  thus,  and  in  order  to  avoid  some  one  whose 
Step  she  heard  approaching,  the  Queen  turned  into  the  grotto  in 
which  her  hapless  and  yet  but  too  successful  rival  lay  concealed. 

The  mind  of  England's  Elizabeth,  if  somewhat  shaken  by  the 
agitating  interview  to  which  she  had  just  put  a  period,  was  of 
that  firm  and  decided  character  which  soon  recovers  its  natural 
tone.  It  was  like  one  of  those  ancient  druidical  monuments 
called  rocking-stones.  The  finger  of  Cupid,  boy  as  he  is  painted, 
could  put  her  feelings  in  motion;  but  the  power  of  Hercules 
could  not  have  destroyed  their  equilibrium.  As  she  advanced 
with  a  slow  pace  toward  the  inmost  extremity  of  the  grotto,  her 
countenance,  ere  she  had  proceeded  half  the  length,  had  recov- 
ered its  dignity  of  look,  and  her  mien  its  air  of  command. 

It  was  then  the  Queen  became  aware  that  a  female  figure 
was  placed  beside,  or  rather  partly  behind,  an  alabaster  column, 
at  the  foot  of  which  arose  the  pellucid  fountain  which  occupied 
the  inmost  recess  of  the  twilight  grotto.  The  classical  mind  of 
Elizabeth  suggested  the  story  of  Numa  and  Egeria;  and  she 
doubted  not  that  some  Italian  sculptor  had  here  represented  the 
Naiad  whose  inspirations  gave  laws  to  Rome.  As  she  advanced, 
she  became  doubtful  whether  she  beheld  a  statue  or  a  form  of 
flesh  and  blood.  The  unfortunate  Amy,  indeed,  remained  motion- 
less,   betwixt   the   desire    which    she    had    to    make    her   condition 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  13027 

known  to  one  of  her  own  sex,  and  her  awe  for  the   stately  form 
that    approached    her, —  and    which,   though    her    eyes    had    never 

I  before  beheld,  her  fears  instantly  suspected  to  be  the  personage 
she  really  was.  Amy  had  arisen  from  her  seat  with  the  purpose 
f  of  addressing  the  lady,  who  entered  the  grotto  alone,  and  as 
she  at  first  thought,  so  opportunely.  But  when  she  recollected 
the  alarm  which  Leicester  had  expressed  at  the  Queen's  knowing 
aught  of  their  union,  and  became  more  and  more  satisfied  that 
the  person  whom  she  now  beheld  was  Elizabeth  herself,  she 
stood  with  one  foot  advanced  and  one  withdrawn,  her  arms,  head, 
and  hands  perfectly  motionless,  and  her  cheek  as  pallid  as  the 
alabaster  pedestal  against  which  she  leaned.  Her  dress  was  of 
pale  sea-green  silk,  little  distinguished  in  that  imperfect  light, 
and  somewhat  resembled  the  drapery  of  a  Grecian  nymph, — 
such  an  antique  disguise  having  been  thought  the  most  secure 
where  so  many  maskers  and  revelers  were  assembled;  so  that 
the  Queen's  doubt  of  her  being  a  living  form  was  justified  by 
all  contingent  circumstances,  as  well  as  by  the  bloodless  cheek 
and  fixed  eye. 

Elizabeth  remained  in  doubt,  even  after  she  had  approached 
within  a  few  paces,  whether  she  did  not  gaze  on  a  statue  so  cun- 
ningly fashioned,  that  by  the  doubtful  light  it  could  not  be  dis- 
tinguished from  reality.  She  stopped,  therefore,  and  fixed  upon 
this  interesting  object  her  princely  look  with  so  much  keenness, 
that  the  astonishment  which  had  kept  Amy  immovable  gave  way 
to  awe,  and  she  gradually  cast  down  her  eyes  and  dropped  her 
head  under  the  commanding  gaze  of  the  sovereign.  Still,  how- 
ever, she  remained  in  all  respects,  saving  this  slow  and  profound 
inclination  of  the  head,   motionless  and  silent. 

From  her  dress,  and  the  casket  which  she  instinctively  held 
in  her  hand,  Elizabeth  naturally  conjectured  that  the  beautiful 
but  mute  figure  which  she  beheld  was  a  performer  in  one  of  the 
various  theatrical  pageants  which  had  been  placed  in  different 
situations  to  surprise  her  with  their  homage;  and  that  the  poor 
player,  overcome  with  awe  at  her  presence,  had  either  forgot  the 
part  assigned  her,  or  lacked  courage  to  go  through  it.  It  was 
natural  and  courteous  to  give  her  some  encouragement;  and 
Elizabeth  accordingly  said,  in  a  tone  of  condescending  kindness: 
"How  now,  fair  nymph  of  this  lovely  grotto  —  art  thou  spell- 
bound and  struck  with  dumbness  by  the  wicked  enchanter  whom 


,-Q28  ^^^   WALTER   SCOTT 

men   term    Fear  ?     We   are    his   sworn    enemy,  maiden,  and    can 
reverse  his  charm.      Speak,   we   command  thee.'^ 

Instead  of  answering  her  by  speech,  the  unfortunate  countess 
dropped  on  her  knee  before  the  Queen,  let  her  casket  fall  from 
her  hand,  and  clasping  her  palms  together,  looked  up  in  the 
Queen's  face  with  such  a  mixed  agony  of  fear  and  supplication, 
that  Elizabeth  was  considerably  affected. 

^*  What  may  this  mean  ?  ^^  she  said :  ^<  this  is  a  stronger  passion 
than  befits  the  occasion.  Stand  up,  damsel:  what  wouldst  thou 
have  with  us  ?  '* 

«Your  protection,  madam,  >^  faltered  forth  the  unhappy  peti- 
tioner. 

«Each  daughter  of  England  has  it  while  she  is  worthy  of  it," 
replied  the  Queen;  <*but  your  distress  seems  to  have  a  deeper 
root  than  a  forgotten  task.  Why,  and  in  what,  do  you  crave  our 
protection  ?  ^* 

Amy  hastily  endeavored  to  recall  what  she  were  best  to  say, 
which  might  secure  herself  from  the  imminent  dangers  that  sur- 
rounded her,  without  endangering  her  husband;  and  plunging 
from,  one  thought  to  another,  amidst  the  chaos  which  filled  her 
mind,  she  could  at  length,  in  answer  to  the  Queen's  repeated 
inquiries  in  what  she  sought  protection,  only  falter  out,  "Alas!  I 
know  not.  ^^ 

«This  is  folly,  maiden,"  said  EHzabeth  impatiently;  for  there 
was  something  in  the  extreme  confusion  of  the  suppliant  which 
irritated  her  curiosity  as  well  as  interested  her  feelings.  « The 
sick  man  must  tell  his  malady  to  the  physician;  ncr  are  we 
accustomed  to  ask  questions  so  oft,  without  receiving  an  answer.'* 

«  I  request  —  I  implore  — "  stammered  forth  the  unfortunate 
countess — "I  beseech  your  gracious  protection  —  against  —  against 
one  Varney."  She  choked  well-nigh  as  she  uttered  the  fatal 
word,  which  was  instantly  caught  up  by  the  Queen. 

«What,  Varney  — Sir  Richard  Varney  — the  servant  of  Lord 
Leicester!     What,  damsel,  are  you  to  him,  or  he  to  you  ?  >* 

«  I  —  I  —  was  his  prisoner  —  and  he  practiced  on  my  life  —  and 
I  broke  forth  to  —  to — '* 

"To  throw  thyself  on  my  protection,  doubtless,'*  said  Eliza- 
beth. "Thou  &halt  have  it  — that  is,  if  thou  art  worthy;  for  we 
will  sift  this  matter  to  the  uttermost.— Thou  art,"  she  said,  bend- 
ing on  the  countess  an  eye  which  seemed  designed  to  pierce  her 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  I3029 

very  inmost  soul, — "  thou  art  Amy,  daughter  of  Sir  Hugh  Rob- 
sart  of  Lidcote  Hall?" 

<<  Forgive  me  —  forgive  me  —  most  gracious  princess!"  said 
Amy,  dropping  once  more  on  her  knee  from  which  she  had 
arisen. 

"For  what  should  I  forgive  thee,  silly  wench  ?"  said  Elizabeth: 
«for  being  the  daughter  of  thine  own  father?  Thou  art  brain- 
sick, surely  Well,  I  see  I  must  wring  the  story  from  thee  by 
inches:  Thou  didst  deceive  thine  old  and  honored  father, —  thy 
look  confesses  it;  cheated  Master  Tressilian, —  thy  blush  avouches 
it;   and  married  this  same  Varney. " 

Amy  sprung  on  her  feet,  and  interrupted  the  Queen  eagerly 
■with  —  "No,  madam,  no:  as  there  is  a  God  above  us,  I  am  not 
the  sordid  wretch  you  would  make  me!  I  am  not  the  wife  of  that 
contemptible  slave  —  of  that  most  deliberate  villain!  I  am  not  the 
wife  of  Varney !     I  would  rather  be  the  bride  of  Destruction !  " 

The  Queen,  overwhelmed  in  her  turn  by  Amy's  vehemence, 
stood  silent  for  an  instant,  and  then  replied,  "  Why,  God  ha' 
mercy,  woman!  I  see  thou  canst  talk  fast  enough  when  the 
theme  likes  thee.  Nay,  tell  me,  woman,"  she  continued,  for  to 
the  impulse  of  curiosity  was  now  added  that  of  an  undefined 
jealousy  that  some  deception  had  been  practiced  on  her, — "  tell 
me,  woman, —  for  by  God's  day,  I  will  know, —  whose  wife  or 
whose  paramour  art  thou  ?  Speak  out,  and  be  speedy :  thou 
wert   better  dally   with   a  lioness  than   with    Elizabeth." 

Urged  to  this  extremity,  dragged  as  it  were  by  irresistible 
force  to  the  verge  of  a  precipice  which  she  saw  but  could  not 
avoid,  permitted  not  a  moment's  respite  by  the  eager  words 
and  menacing  gestures  of  the  offended  Queen, —  Amy  at  length 
Uttered  in  despair,    "The  Earl  of  Leicester  knows  it  all." 

"The  Earl  of  Leicester!"  said  Elizabeth  in  utter  astonishment 
•—"The  Earl  of  Leicester!"  she  repeated  with  kindling  anger. — 
*  Woman,  thou  art  set  on  to  this  —  thou  dost  belie  him  —  he 
takes  no  keep  of  such  things  as  thou  art.  Thou  art  suborned 
to  slander  the  noblest  lord,  and  the  truest-hearted  gentleman,  in 
England!  But  were  he  the  right  hand  of  our  trust,  or  something 
yet  dearer  to  us,  thou  shalt  have  thy  hearing,  and  that  in  his 
presence.     Come  with   mc  —  come   with  me  instantly!" 

As  Amy  shrunk  back  with  terror,  which  the  incensed  Queen 
interpreted  as  that  of  conscious  guilt,  Elizabeth  rapidly  advanced, 
seized  on  her  arm,  and  hastened  with  swift  and  long  steps  out  of 


J, 0,0  SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

the  grotto  and  along"  the  principal  alley  of  the  pleasance,  drag- 
ging with  her  the  terrified  countess,  whom  she  still  held  by  the 
arm,  and  whose  utmost  exertions  could  but  just  keep  pace  with 
those  of  the  indignant  Queen. 

Leicester  was  at  this  moment  the  centre  of  a  splendid  group 
of  lords  and  ladies  assembled  together  under  an  arcade,  or  portico, 
which  closed  the  alley.  The  company  had  drawn  together  in  that 
place,  to  attend  the  commands  of  her  Majesty  when  the  hunt- 
ing party  should  go  forward:  and  their  astonishment  may  be 
imagined,  when,  instead  of  seeing  Elizabeth  advance  toward 
them  with  her  usual  measured  dignity  of  motion,  they  beheld  her 
walking  so  rapidly  that  she  was  in  the  midst  of  them  ere  they 
were  aware;  and  then  observed,  with  fear  and  surprise,  that  her 
features  were  flushed  betwixt  anger  and  agitation,  that  her  hair 
was  loosened  by  her  haste  of  motion,  and  that  her  eyes  spark- 
led as  they  were  wont  when  the  spirit  of  Henry  VIII.  mounted 
highest  in  his  daughter.  Nor  were  they  less  astonished  at  the 
appearance  of  the  pale,  attenuated,  half  dead,  yet  still  lovely 
female,  whom  the  Queen  upheld  by  main  strength  with  one  hand, 
while  with  the  other  she  waved  aside  the  ladies  and  nobles  who 
pressed  toward  her  under  the  idea  that  she  was  taken  suddenly 
ill, — «  Where  is  my  Lord  of  Leicester  ?  ^^  she  said,  in  a  tone  that 
thrilled  with  astonishment  all  the  courtiers  who  stood  around. — 
«  Stand  forth,  my  Lord  of  Leicester!" 

If,  in  the  midst  of  the  most  serene  day  of  summer,  when  all 
is  light  and  laughing  around,  a  thunderbolt  were  to  fall  from  the 
clear  blue  vault  of  heaven  and  rend  the  earth  at  the  very  feet 
of  some  careless  traveler,  he  could  not  gaze  upon  the  smolder- 
ing chasm  which  so  unexpectedly  yawned  before  him,  with  half 
the  astonishment  and  fear  which  Leicester  felt  at  the  sight  that 
so  suddenly  presented  itself.  He  had  that  instant  been  receiving, 
with  a  political  affectation  of  disavowing  and  misunderstanding 
their  meaning,  the  half  uttered,  half  intimated  congratulations  of 
the  courtiers  upon  the  favor  of  the  Queen,  carried  apparently 
to  its  highest  pitch  during  the  interview  of  that  morning; 
from  which  most  of  them  seemed  to  augur  that  he  might  soon 
arise  from  their  equal  in  rank  to  become  their  master.  And 
now,  while  the  subdued  yet  proiid  smile  with  which  he  disclaimed 
those  inferences  was  yet  culling  his  cheek,  the  Queen  shot  into 
the  circle,  her  passions  excited  to  the  uttermost;  and  supporting 
with   one   hand,    and   apparently   without   an  effort,  the  pale  and 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  13031 

sinking  form  of  his  almost  expiring  wife,  and  pointing  with  the 
finger  of  the  other  to  her  half-dead  features,  demanded  in  a  voice 
that  sounded  to  the  ear  of  the  astounded  statesman  like  the  last 
dread  trumpet-call  that  is  to  summon  body  and  spirit  to  the 
judgment-seat,   "  Knowest   thou   this  woman  ? " 

As,  at  the  blast  of  that  last  trumpet,  the  guilty  shall  call  upon 
the  mountains  to  cover  them,  Leicester's  inward  thoughts  invoked 
the  stately  arch  which  he  had  built  in  his  pride,  to  burst  its 
strong  conjunction  and  overwhelm  them  in  its  ruins.  But  the 
cemented  stones,  architrave  and  battlement,  stood  fast;  and  it 
was  the  proud  master  himself,  who,  as  if  some  actual  pressure 
had  bent  him  to  the  earth,  kneeled  down  before  Elizabeth,  and 
prostrated  his  brow  to  the  marble  flagstones  on  which   she  stood. 

"  Leicester/^  said  Elizabeth,  in  a  voice  which  trembled  with 
passion,  '*  could  I  think  thou  hast  practiced  on  me  —  on  me  thy 
sovereign  —  on  me  thy  confiding,  thy  too  partial  mistress,  the  base 
and  ungrateful  deception  which  thy  present  confusion  surmises  — 
by  all  that  is  holy,  false  lord,  that  head  of  thine  were  in  as  great 
peril  as  ever  was  thy  father's !  ^^ 

Leicester  had  not  conscious  innocence,  but  he  had  pride,  to 
support  him.  He  raised  slowly  his  brow  and  features,  which 
were  black  and  swollen  with  contending  emotions,  and  only 
replied,  "  My  head  cannot  fall  but  by  the  sentence  of  my  peers: 
to  them  I  will  plead,  and  not  to  a  princess  who  thus  requites  my 
faithful  service.'^ 

"What!  my  lords, ^^  said  Elizabeth,  looking  around,  ^Sve  are 
defied,  I  think  —  defied  in  the  castle  we  have  ourselves  bestowed 
on  this  proud  man?  —  My  Lord  Shrewsbury,  you  are  marshal  of 
England:   attach  him  of  high  treason.** 

"  Whom  does  your  Grace  mean  ?  **  said  Shrewsbury,  much  sur- 
prised,—  for  he  had  that  instant  joined  the  astonished  circle. 

"Whom  should  I  mean  but  that  traitor  Dudley,  Earl  of  Lei- 
cester!—  Cousin  of  Hunsdon,  order  out  3'our  band  of  gentlemen 
pensioners,  and  take  him  into  instant  custody. —  I  say,  villain, 
make  haste !  '* 

Hunsdon,  a  rough  old  noble,  who,  from  his  relationship  to  the 
Boleyns,  was  accustomed  to  use  more  freedom  with  the  Queen 
than  almost  any  other  dared  to  do,  replied  bluntly,  "And  it  is 
like  your  Grace  might  order  me  to  the  Tower  to-morrow  for 
making  too  much  haste.     I  do  beseech  you  to  be  patient.** 

925  ft? 


13032  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  , 

"Patient  —  God's  life!*^  exclaimed  the  Queen,  "name  not  the 
word  to  me:   thou  know'st  not  of  what  he  is  guilty!" 

Amy,  who  had  by  this  time  in  some  degree  recovered  herself, 
and  who  saw  her  husband,  as  she  conceived,  in  the  utmost  danger 
from  the  rage  of  an  offended  sovereign,  instantly  (and  alas,  how 
many  women  have  done  the  same !)  forgot  her  own  wrongs  and 
her  own  danger  in  her  apprehensions  for  him;  and  throwing  her- 
self before  the  Queen,  embraced  her  knees,  while  she  exclaimed, 
"He  is  guiltless,  madam,  he  is  guiltless  —  no  one  can  lay  aught 
to  the  charge  of  the  noble  Leicester." 

"Why,  minion,"  answered  the  Queen,  "didst  not  thou  thyself 
say  that  the  Earl  of  Leicester  was  privy  to  thy  whole  history  ? " 

"  Did  I  say  so  ? "  repeated  the  unhappy  Amy,  laying  aside 
every  consideration  of  consistency  and  of  self-interest:  "oh,  if  I 
did,  I  foully  belied  him.  May  God  so  judge  me,  as  I  believe  he 
was  never  privy  to  a  thought  that  would  harm  me ! " 

"Woman!"  said  Elizabeth,  "I  will  know  who  has  moved  thee 
to  this;  or  my  wrath  —  and  the  wrath  of  kings  is  a  flaming  fire  — 
shall  wither  and  consume  thee  like  a  weed  in  the  furnace." 

As  the  Queen  uttered  this  threat,  Leicester's  better  angel 
called  his  pride  to  his  aid,  and  reproached  him  with  the  utter 
extremity  of  meanness  which  would  overwhelm  him  forever,  if 
he  stooped  to  take  shelter  under  the  generous  interposition  of  his 
wife,  and  abandon  her,  in  return  for  her  kindness,  to  the  resent- 
ment of  the  Queen.  He  had  already  raised  his  head,  with  the 
dignity  of  a  man  of  honor,  to  avow  his  marriage  and  proclaim 
himself  the  protector  of  his  countess,  when  Varney  —  born,  as  it 
appeared,  to  be  his  master's  evil  genius  —  rushed  into  the  pres- 
ence, with  every  mark  of  disorder  on  his  face  and  apparel. 

"  What  means  this  saucy  intrusion  ? "  said  Elizabeth. 

Varney,  with  the  air  of  a  man  overwhelmed  with  grief  and 
confusion,  prostrated  himself  before  her  feet,  exclaiming,  "  Par- 
don, my  Liege,  pardon!  or  at  least  let  your  justice  avenge  itself 
on  me,  where  it  is  due;  but  spare  my  noble,  my  generous,  my 
innocent  patron  and  master ! " 

Amy,  who  was  yet  kneeling,  started  up  as  she  saw  the  man 
whom  she  deemed  most  odious  place  himself  so  near  her;  and 
was  about  to  fly  toward  Leicester,  when,  checked  at  once  by  the 
uncertainty  and  even  timidity  which  his  looks  had  reassumed  as 
soon   as  the  appearance  of  his  confidant  seemed  to  open  a  new 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  1 3033 

scene,  she  hung  back,  and  uttering  a  faint  scream,  besought  of 
her  Majesty  to  cause  her  to  be  imprisoned  in  the  lowest  dungeon 
of  the  castle  —  to  deal  with  her  as  the  worst  of  criminals  —  "But 
spare, *^  she  exclaimed,  "my  sight  and  hearing  what  will  destroy 
the  little  judgment  I  have  left, —  the  sight  of  that  unutterable 
and  most  shameless  villain !  '^ 

"And  why,  sweetheart  ?  ^*  said  the  Queen,  moved  by  a  new 
impulse:  "what  hath  he,  this  false  knight,  since  such  thou  ac- 
countest   him,   done    to    thee  ?  *^ 

"Oh,  worse  than  sorrow,  madam,  and  worse  than  injury, —  he 
has  sown  dissension  where  most  there  should  be  peace.  I  shall 
go  mad  if  I  look  longer  on  him.** 

"  Beshrew  me,  but  I  think  thou  art  distraught  already,**  an- 
swered the  Queen.  —  "My  Lord  Hunsdon,  look  to  this  poor  dis- 
tressed young  woman,  and  let  her  be  safely  bestowed  and  in 
honest  keeping,   till   we  require  her  to   be   forthcoming.** 

Two  or  three  of  the  ladies  in  attendance,  either  moved  by 
compassion  for  a  creature  so  interesting,  or  by  some  other 
motive,  offered  their  service  to  look  after  her;  but  the  Queen 
briefly  answered,  "Ladies,  under  favor,  no. —  You  have  all  (give 
God  thanks)  sharp  ears  and  nimble  tongues:  our  kinsman  Huns- 
don has  ears  of  the  dullest,  and  a  tongue  somewhat  rough,  but 
yet  of  the  slowest. —  Hunsdon,  look  to  it  that  none  have  speech 
of  her.** 

"By  our  Lady!**  said  Hunsdon,  taking  in  his  strong  sinewy 
arms  the  fading  and  almost  swooning  form  of  Amy,  "  she  is  a 
lovely  child;  and  though  a  rough  nurse,  your  Grace  hath  given 
her  a  kind  one.  She  is  safe  with  me  as  one  of  my  own  lady-birds 
of  daughters.** 

So  saying,  he  carried  her  off,  unresistingly  and  almost  uncon- 
sciously; his  war-worn  locks  and  long  gray  beard  mingling  with 
her  light-brown  tresses,  as  her  head  reclined  on  his  strong  square 
shoulder.  The  Queen  followed  him  with  her  e5'-e.  She  had 
already,  with  that  self-command  which  forms  so  necessary  a  part 
of  a  sovereign's  accomplishments,  suppressed  every  appearance 
of  agitation,  and  seemed  as  if  she  desired  to  banish  all  traces  of 
her  burst  of  passion  frcui  the  recollection  of  those  who  had  wit- 
nessed it.  "My  Lord  of  Himsdon  says  well,**  she  observed:  "he 
is  indeed  but  a  rough  nurse  for  so  tender  a  babe.'* 

"My  Lord  of  Hunsdon,**  said  the  Dean  of  St.  Asaph, —  "I 
speak   it  not  in   defamation  of  his  more   noble   qualities, — hath  a 


^,^..  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

broad  license  in  speech,  and  garnishes  his  discourse  somewhat  too 
freely  with  the  cruel  and  superstitious  oaths  which  savor  both  of 
profaneness  and  of  old  papistrie.'^ 

« It  is  the  fault  of  his  blood,  Mr.  Deans,"  said  the  Queen, 
turning  sharply  round  upon  the  reverend  dignitary  as  she  spoke; 
"  and  you  may  blame  mine  for  the  same  distemperature.  The 
Boleyns  were  ever  a  hot  and  plain-spoken  race,  more  hasty  to 
speak  their  mind  than  careful  to  choose  their  expressions.  And 
by  my  word, —  I  hope  there  is  no  sin  in  that  affirmation, —  I 
question  if  it  were  much  cooled  by  mixing  with  that  of  Tudor.* 

As  she  made  this  last  observation,  she  smiled  graciously  and 
stole  her  eyes  almost  insensibly  round  to  seek  those  of  the  Earl 
of  Leicester,  to  whom  she  now  began  to  think  she  had  spoken 
with  hasty  harshness  upon  the  unfounded  suspicion  of  a  mo- 
ment. 

The  Queen's  eye  found  the  earl  in  no  mood  to  accept  the 
implied  offer  of  conciliation.  His  own  looks  had  followed,  with 
late  and  rueful  repentance,  the  faded  form  which  Hunsdon  had 
just  borne  from  the  presence;  they  now  reposed  gloomily  on  the 
ground,  but  more  —  so  at  least  it  seemed  to  Elizabeth  —  with  the 
expression  of  one  who  has  received  an  unjust  affront,  than  of 
him  who  is  conscious  of  guilt.  She  turned  her  face  angrily  from 
him,  and  said  to  Varney,  "  Speak,  Sir  Richard,  and  explain  these 
riddles;  —  thou  hast  sense  and  the  use  of  speech,  at  least,  which 
elsewhere  we  look  for  in  vain.*^ 

As  she  said  this,  she  darted  another  resentful  glance  toward 
Leicester,  while  the  wily  Varney  hastened  to  tell  his  own   story. 

«Your  Majesty's  piercing  eye,"  he  said,  ^*has  already  detected 
the  cruel  malady  of  my  beloved  lady ;  which,  unhappy  that  I 
am,  I  would  not  suffer  to  be  expressed  in  the  certificate  of  her 
physician,  seeking  to  conceal  what  has  now  broken  out  with  so 
much  the  more  scandal." 

«She  is  then  distraught?"  said  the  Queen ;  —  « indeed  we 
doubted  not  of  it, — her  whole  demeanor  bears  it  out.  I  found 
her  moping  in  a  corner  of  yonder  grotto;  and  every  word  she 
spoke  —  which  indeed  I  dragged  from  her  as  by  the  rack  —  she 
instantly  recalled  and  forswore.  But  how  came  she  hither?  Why 
had  you  her  not  in  safe-keeping  ? " 

"  My  gracious  Liege, "  said  Varney,  "  the  worthy  gentleman 
under  whose  charge  I  left  her.  Master  Anthony  Foster,  has  come 
hither  but  now,  as  fast  as  man  and  horse  can  travel,  to  show  me  of 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  I3035 

her  escape,  which  she  managed  with  the  art  peculiar  to  many  who 
are  afflicted  with  this  malady.      He  is  at  hand   for  examination." 

<' Let  it  be  for  another  time,"  said  the  Queen.  <^  But,  Sir 
Richard,  we  envy  you  not  your  domestic  felicity:  your  lady  railed 
on  you  bitterly,   and   seemed  ready  to  swoon  at  beholding  you." 

*^  It  is  the  nature  of  persons  in  her  disorder,  so  please  your 
Grace,"  answered  Varney,  ^*  to  be  ever  most  inveterate  in  their 
spleen  against  those  whom,  in  their  better  moments,  they  hold 
nearest  and  dearest." 

"We  have  heard  so,  indeed,"  said  Elizabeth,  "and  give  faith 
to  the  saying." 

"May  your  Grace  then  be  pleased,"  said  Varriey,  "to  com- 
mand my  unfortunate  wife  to  be  delivered  into  the  custody  of 
her  friends  ? " 

Leicester  partly  started;  but  making  a  strong  effort,  he  sub- 
dued his  emotion,  while  Elizabeth  answered  sharply,  "  You  are 
something  too  hasty.  Master  Varney:  we  will  have  first  a  report 
of  the  lady's  health  and  state  of  mind  from  Masters,  our  own 
physician,  and  then  determine  what  shall  be  thought  just.  You 
shall  have  license,  however,  to  see  her,  that  if  there  be  any 
matrimonial  quarrel  betwixt  you — such  things  we  have  heard  do 
occur,  even  betwixt  a  loving  couple  —  you  may  make  it  up,  with- 
out further  scandal  to  our  court  or  trouble  to  ourselves." 

Varney  bowed  low,  and  made  no  other  answer. 

Elizabeth  again  looked  toward  Leicester,  and  said,  with  a 
degree  of  condescension  which  could  only  arise  out  of  the  most 
heartfelt  interest,  "  Discord,  as  the  Italian  poet  says,  will  find 
her  way  into  peaceful  convents,  as  well  as  into  the  privacy  of 
families;  and  we  fear  our  own  guards  and  ushers  will  hardly 
exclude  her  from  courts.  My  Lord  of  Leicester,  you  are  offended 
with  us,  and  we  have  right  to  be  offended  with  you.  We  will 
take  the  lion's  part  tipon  us,  and  be  the  first  to  forgive." 

Leicester  smoothed  his  brow,  as  if  by  an  effort;  but  the 
trouble  was  too  deep-seated  that  its  placidity  should  at  once 
return.  He  said,  however,  that  which  fitted  the  occasion,  that 
"  he  could  not  have  the  happiness  of  forgiving,  because  she  who 
commanded   him  to  do   so  could  commit   no   injury   toward   him." 

Elizabeth  seemed  content  with  tliis  reply,  and  intimated  her 
pleasure  that  the  sports  of  the  morning  should  proceed.  The 
bugles  sounded,  the  hounds  bayed,  the  horses  pranced;  but  the 
courtiers  and  ladies  sought  the  amusements  to  which  they  were 


13036  SIR  WALTER   SCOTT 

summoned,  with  hearts  very  different  from  those  which  had 
leaped  to  the  morning's  r^veil.  There  was  doubt  and  fear  and 
expectation  on  every  brow,  and  surmise  and  intrigue  in  every 
whisper. 

Blount  took  an  opportunity  to  whisper  into  Raleigh's  ear, 
"This  storm   came  like   a  levanter  in   the   Mediterranean," 

^'•Varium  et  mutabile,^^  answered  Raleigh  in  a  similar  tone. 

<*Nay,  I  know  naught  of  your  Latin, >^  said  Blount;  "but  I 
thank  God  Tressilian  took  not  the  sea  during  that  hurricane.  He 
could  scarce  have  missed  shipwreck,  knowing  as  he  does  so  little 
how  to  trim  his  sails  to  a  court  gale." 

"  Thou  woiildst  have  instructed  him  ?  "  said  Raleigh. 

"  Why,  I  have  profited  by  my  time  as  well  as  thou.  Sir 
Walter, "  replied  honest  Blount.  «  I  am  knight  as  well  as  thou, 
and  of  the  earlier  creation." 

"  Now,  God  further  thy  wit, "  said  Raleigh ;  "  but  for  Tres- 
silian, I  would  I  knew  what  were  the  matter  with  him.  He  told 
me  this  morning  he  would  not  leave  his  chamber  for  the  space 
of  twelve  hours  or  thereby,  being  bound  by  a  promise.  This 
lady's  madness,  when  he  shall  learn  it,  will  not,  I  fear,  cure  his 
infirmity.  The  moon  is  at  the  fullest,  and  men's  brains  are  work- 
ing like  yeast.  But  hark!  they  sound  to  mount.  Let  us  to 
horse,   Blount:   we  young  knights  must  deserve  our  spurs." 


THE   TOURNAMENT 

From  <  Ivanhoe  > 

THE  lists  now  presented  a  most  splendid  spectacle.  The  slop- 
ing galleries  were  crowded  with  all  that  was  noble,  great, 
wealthy,  and  beautiful  in  the  northern  and  midland  parts 
of  England,  and  the  contrast  of  the  various  dresses  of  these  dig- 
nified spectators  rendered  the  view  as  gay  as  it  was  rich;  while 
the  interior  and  lower  space,  filled  with  the  substantial  burgesses 
and  yeomen  of  merry  England,  formed,  in  their  more  plain 
attire,  a  dark  fringe  or  border  around  this  circle  of  brilliant  em- 
broidery, relieving  and  at  the  same  time  setting  off  its  splendor. 
The  heralds  finished  their  proclamation  with  their  usual  cry 
of  ^'Largesse,  largesse,  gallant  knights!"  and  gold  and  silver 
pieces  were   showered  on   them   from    the   galleries, —  it   being   a 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  I3037 

high  point  of  chivalry  to  exhibit  liberality  toward  those  whom  the 
ao-e  accounted  at  once  the  secretaries  and  the  historians  of  honor. 
The  bounty  of  the  spectators  was  acknowledged  by  the  customary 
shouts  of  «Love  of  Ladies  — Death  of  Champions— Honor  to  the 
Generous  — Glory  to  the  Brave !»  To  which  the  more  humble 
spectators  added  their  acclamations,  and  a  numerous  band  of 
trumpeters  the  flourish  of  their  martial  instruments.  When  these 
sounds  had  ceased,  the  heralds  withdrew  from  the  hsts  in  gay 
and  glittering  procession;  and  none  remained  within  them  save 
the  marshals  of  the  field,  who,  armed  cap-a-pie,  sat  on  horse- 
back, motionless  as  statues,  at  the  opposite  ends  of  the  Hsts. 
Meantime  the  inclosed  space  at  the  northern  extremity  of  the 
lists,  large  as  it  was,  was  now  completely  crowded  with  knights 
desirous  to  prove  their  skill  against  the  challengers,  and  when 
viewed  from  the  galleries,  presented  the  appearance  of  a  sea  of 
waving  plumage,  intermixed  with  glistening  helmets  and  tall 
lances;  to  the  extremities  of  which  were  in  many  cases  attached 
small  pennons  of  about  a  span's  breadth,  which,  fluttering  in  the 
air  as  the  breeze  caught  them,  joined  with  the  restless  motion  of 
the  feathers  to  add  liveliness  to  the  scene. 

At  length  the  barriers  were  opened,  and  five  knights,  chosen 
by  lot,  advanced  slowly  into  the  area;  a  single  champion  riding 
in  front,  and  the  other  four  following  in  pairs.  All  were  splen- 
didly armed,  and  my  Saxon  authority  (in  the  Wardour  Manu- 
script) records  at  great  length  their  devices,  their  colors,  and 
the  embroidery  of  their  horse  trappings.  It  is  unnecessary  to 
be  particular  on  these  subjects.  To  borrow  lines  from  a  contem- 
porary poet,  who  has  written  but  too  little:  — 

The  knights  are  dust, 

And  their  good  swords  are  rust; 

Their  souls  are  with  the  saints,  we  trust.* 

Their  escutcheons  have  long  moldered  from  the  walls  of  their 
castles.  Their  castles  themselves  are  but  green  mounds  and 
shattered  ruins;  the  place  that  once  knew  them  knows  them  no 
more:  nay,  many  a  race  since  theirs  has  died  out  and  been  for- 
gotten in  the  very  land  which  they  occupied  with  all  the  author- 
ity of  feudal  proprietors  and  feudal  lords.  What  then  would 
it  avail  the  reader  to  know  their  names,  or  the  evanescent  sym- 
bols of  their  martial  rank  ? 

*  These  hnes  are  part  of  an  unpubUshed  poem  by  Coleridge. 


^3038 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT 


Now,  however,  no  whit  anticipating  the  oblivion  which  awaited 
their  names  and  feats,  the  champions  advanced  through  the  lists, 
restraining  their  fiery  steeds  and  compelling  them  to  move 
slowly,  while  at  the  same  time  they  exhibited  their  paces,  to- 
gether with  the  grace  and  dexterity  of  the  riders.  As  the  pro- 
cession entered  the  lists,  the  sound  of  a  wild  barbaric  music  was 
heard  from  behind  the  tents  of  the  challengers,  where  the  per- 
formers were  concealed.  It  was  of  Eastern  origin,  having  been 
brought  from  the  Holy  Land;  and  the  mixture  of  the  cymbals 
and  bells  seemed  to  bid  welcome  at  once,  and  defiance,  to  the 
knights,  as  they  advanced.  With  the  eyes  of  an  immense  con- 
course of  spectators  fixed  upon  them,  the  five  knights  advanced 
up  the  platform  upon  which  the  tents  of  the  challengers  stood; 
and  there  separating  themselves,  each  touched  slightly,  and  with 
the  reverse  of  his  lance,  the  shield  of  the  antagonist  to  whom  he 
wished  to  oppose  himself.  The  lower  orders  of  the  spectators 
in  general  —  nay,  many  of  the  higher  class,  and  it  is  even  said 
several  of  the  ladies  —  were  rather  disappointed  at  the  champi- 
ons choosing  the  arms  of  courtesy.  For  the  same  sort  of  persons 
who,  in  the  present  day,  applaud  most  highly  the  deepest  trage- 
dies, were  then  interested  in  a  tournament  exactly  in  proportion 
to  the  danger  incurred  by  the  champions  engaged. 

Having  intimated  their  more  pacific  purpose,  the  champions 
retreated  to  the  extremity  of  the  lists,  where  they  remained 
drawn  up  in  a  line;  while  the  challengers,  sallying  each  from  his 
pavilion,  mounted  their  horses,  and  headed  by  Brian  de  Bois- 
Guilbert,  descended  from  the  platform,  and  opposed  themselves 
individually  to  the  knights  who  had  touched  their  respective 
shields. 

At  the  flourish  of  clarions  and  trumpets,  they  started  out 
against  each  other  at  full  gallop;  and  such  was  the  superior  dex- 
terity or  good  fortune  of  the  challengers,  that  those  opposed  to 
Bois-Guilbert,  Malvoisin,  and  Front-de-Boeuf  rolled  on  the  ground 
The  antagonist  of  Grantmesnil,  instead  of  bearing  his  lance  point 
fair  against  the  crest  or  the  shield  of  his  enemy,  swerved  so 
much  from  the  direct  line  as  to  break  the  weapon  athwart  the 
person  of  his  opponent, —  a  circumstance  which  was  accounted 
more  disgraceful  than  that  of  being  actually  unhorsed;  because 
the  latter  might  happen  from  accident,  whereas  the  former 
evinced  awkwardness  and  want  of  management  of  the  weapon 
and  of  the  horse.      The  fifth  knight  alone    maintained    the  honor 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  -  1 3039 

of  his  party,  and  parted  fairly  with  the  knight  of  St.  John,  both 
spHntering  their  lances  without  advantage  on  either  side. 

The  shouts  of  the  multitude,  together  with  the  acclamations 
of  the  heralds  and  the  clangor  of  the  trumpets,  announced  the 
triumph  of  the  victors  and  the  defeat  of  the  vanquished.  The 
i  former  retreated  to  their  pavilions;  and  the  latter,  gathering 
themselves  up  as  they  could,  withdrew  from  the  lists  in  disgrace 
and  dejection,  to  agree  with  their  victors  concerning  the  redemp- 
tion of  their  arms  and  their  horses,  which,  according  to  the  laws 
of  the  tournament,  they  had  forfeited.  The  fifth  of  their  num- 
ber alone  tarried  in  the  lists  long  enough  to  be  greeted  by  the 
applause  of  the  spectators,  amongst  whom  he  retreated,  —  to  the 
aggravation,  doubtless,  of  his  companions'  mortification. 

A  second  and  a  third  party  of  knights  took  the  field;  and 
although  they  had  various  success,  yet  upon  the  whole  the 
advantage  decidedly  remained  with  the  challengers,  not  one  of 
whom  lost  his  seat  or  swerved  from  his  charge, —  misfortunes 
which  befell  one  or  two  of  their  antagonists  in  each  encounter. 
The  spirits,  therefore,  of  those  opposed  to  them  seemed  to  be 
considerably  damped  by  their  continued  success.  Three  knights 
only  appeared  on  the  fourth  entry;  who,  avoiding  the  shields 
of  Bois-Guilbert  and  Front-de-Boeuf,  contented  themselves  with 
touching  those  of  the  three  other  knights,  who  had  not  alto- 
gether manifested  the  same  strength  and  dexterity.  This  politic 
selection  did  not  alter  the  fortune  of  the  field:  the  challengers 
were  still  successful;  one  of  their  antagonists  was  overthrown, 
and  both  the  others  failed  in  the  attaint,  —  that  is,  in  striking  the 
helmet  and  shield  of  their  antagonist  firmly  and  strongly,  with 
the  lance  held  in  a  direct  line,  so  that  the  weapon  might  break 
unless  the  champion  was  overthrown. 

After  this  fourth  encounter,  there  was  a  considerable  pause; 
nor  did  it  appear  that  any  one  was  very  desirous  of  renewing 
the  contest.  The  spectators  murmured  among  themselves;  for 
among  the  challengers,  Malvoisin  and  Front-de-Boeuf  were  un- 
popular from  their  characters,  and  the  others,  except  Grant- 
mesnil,   were    disliked   as    strangers    and   foreigners. 

But  none  shared  the  general  feeling  of  dissatisfaction  so  keenly 
as  Cedric  the  Saxon,  who  saw,  in  each  advantage  gained  by  the 
Norman  challengers,  a  repeated  triumph  over  the  honor  of  Eng- 
land.     His  own   education   had   taught  him  no  skill   in  the  games 


13040  -  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

of  chivalry;  although  with  the  arms  of  his  Saxon  ancestors  he 
had  manifested  himself,  on  many  occasions,  a  brave  and  deter- 
mined soldier.  He  looked  anxiously  to  Athelstane,  who  had 
learned  the  accomplishments  of  the  age,  as  if  desiring  that  he 
should  make  some  personal  effort  to  recover  the  victory  which 
was  passing  into  the  hands  of  the  Templar  and  his  associates. 
But  though  both  stout  of  heart  and  strong  of  person,  Athelstane 
had  a  disposition  too  inert  and  unambitious  to  make  the  exer- 
tions which  Cedric  seemed  to  expect  from  him. 

"The  day  is  against  England,  my  lord,**  said  Cedric  in  a 
marked  tone :    "  are  you  not  tempted  to  take  the  lance  ?  ** 

"I  shall  tilt  to-morrow,"  answered  Athelstane,  "in  the  meUe ; 
it  is  not  worth  while  for  me  to  arm  myself  to-day.** 

Two  things  displeased  Cedric  in  this  speech.  It  contained 
the  Norman  word  melee  (to  express  the  general  conflict),  and  it 
evinced  some  indifference  to  the  honor  of  the  country;  but  it 
was  spoken  by  Athelstane,  whom  he  held  in  such  profound 
respect  that  he  would  not  trust  himself  to  canvass  his  motives 
or  his  foibles.  Moreover,  he  had  no  time  to  make  any  remark; 
for  Wamba  thrust  in  his  word,  observing  "  it  was  better,  though 
scarce  easier,  to  be  the  best  man  among  a  hundred  than  the 
best  man   of   two.  ** 

Athelstane  took  the  observation  as  a  serious  compliment:  but 
Cedric,  who  better  understood  the  Jester's  meaning,  darted  at 
him  a  severe  and  menacing  look;  and  lucky  it  was  for  Wamba, 
perhaps,  that  the  time  and  place  prevented  his  receiving,  not- 
withstanding his  place  and  service,  more  sensible  marks  of  his 
master's  resentment. 

The  pause  in  the  tournament  was  still  uninterrupted,  except- 
ing by  the  voices  of  the  heralds  exclaiming,  "  Love  of  ladies, 
splintering  of  lances!  Stand  forth,  gallant  knights:  fair  eyes  look 
upon  your  deeds !  ** 

The  music  also  of  the  challengers  breathed  from  time  to  time 
wild  bursts  expressive  of  triumph  or  defiance,  while  the  clowns 
grudged  a  holiday  which  seemed  to  pass  away  in  inactivity;  and 
old  knights  and  nobles  lamented  in  whispers  the  decay  of  martial 
spirit,  spoke  of  the  triumphs  of  their  younger  days,  but  agreed 
that  the  land  did  not  now  supply  dames  of  such  transcendent 
beauty  as  had  animated  the  jousts  of  former  times.  Prince 
John   began   to    talk   to   his   attendants    about    making   ready   the 


\ 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  1304I 

banquet,  and  the  necessity  of  adjudging  the  prize  to  Brian  de 
Bois-Guilbert,  who  had  with  a  single  spear  overthrown  two 
knights    and    foiled    a   third. 

At  length,  as  the  Saracenic  music  of  the  challengers  concluded 
one  of  those  long  and  high  flourishes  with  which  they  had  broken 
the  silence  of  the  lists,  it  was  answered  by  a  solitary  trumpet, 
which  breathed  a  note  of  defiance  from  the  northern  extremity. 
All  eyes  were  turned  to  see  the  new  champion  which  these 
sounds  announced,  and  no  sooner  were  the  barriers  opened  than 
he  paced  into  the  hsts.  As  far  as  could  be  judged  of  a  man 
sheathed  in  armor,  the  new  adventurer  did  not  greatly  exceed 
the  middle  size,  and  seemed  to  be  rather  slender  than  strongly 
made.  His  suit  of  armor  was  formed  of  steel,  richly  inlaid  with 
gold;  and  the  device  on  his  shield  was  a  young  oak-tree  pulled 
up  by  the  roots,  with  the  Spanish  word  Desdichado,  signifying 
Disinherited.  He  was  mounted  on  a  gallant  black  horse,  and  as 
he  passed  through  the  lists  he  gracefully  saluted  the  Prince  and 
the  ladies  by  lowering  his  lance.  The  dexterity  with  which  he 
managed  his  steed,  and  something  of  youthful  grace  which  he 
displayed  in  his  manner,  won  him  the  favor  of  the  multitude, 
which  some  of  the  lower  classes  expressed  by  calling  out,  ^*  Touch 
Ralph  de  Vipont's  shield  —  touch  the  Hospitaler's  shield:  he  has 
the  least  sure  seat,  he  is  your  cheapest  bargain.'' 

The  champion,  moving  onward  amid  these  well-meant  hints, 
ascended  the  platform  by  the  sloping  alley  which  led  to  it  from 
the  lists;  and  to  the  astonishment  of  all  present,  riding  straight 
up  to  the  central  pavilion,  struck  with  the  sharp  end  of  his 
spear  the  shield  of  Brian  de  Bois-Guilbert  until  it  rung  again. 
All  stood  astonished  at  his  presumption ;  but  none  more  than  the 
redoubted  knight  whom  he  had  thus  defied  to  mortal  combat, 
and  who,  little  expecting  so  rude  a  challenge,  was  standing  care- 
lessly at  the  door  of  the  pavilion. 

"Have  you  confessed  yourself,  brother,'^  said  the  Templar, 
<'and  have  you  heard  mass  this  morning,  that  you  peril  your  life 
so  frankly  ? " 

"I  am  fitter  to  meet  death  than  thou  art,"  answered  the  Dis- 
inherited Knight;  for  by  this  name  the  stranger  had  recorded 
himself  in  the  books  of  the  tourney. 

"  Then  take  your  place  in  the  lists, "  said  Bois-Guilbert,  "  and 
look  your  last  upon  the  sun;  for  this  night  thou  shalt  sleep  in 
Paradise." 


J2042  SIR   WALTER    SCOTT 

"  Gramercy  for  thy  courtesy,  '^  replied  the  Disinherited  Knight ; 
^*  and  to  requite  it  I  advise  thee  to  take  a  fresh  horse  and  a  new 
lance,  for  by  my  honor  you  will  need  both. '^ 

Having  expressed  himself  thus  confidently,  he  reined  his  horse 
backward  down  the  slope  which  he  had  ascended,  and  compelled 
him  in  the  same  manner  to  move  backward  through  the  lists, 
till  he  reached  the  northern  extremity,  where  he  remained  sta- 
tionary in  expectation  of  his  antagonist.  This  feat  of  horseman- 
ship again  attracted  the  applause  of  the  multitude. 

However  incensed  at  his  adversary  for  the  precautions  which 
he  recommended,  Brian  de  Bois-Guilbert  did  not  neglect  his 
advice;  for  his  honor  was  too  nearly  concerned  to  permit  his 
neglecting  any  means  which  might  insure  victory  over  his  pre- 
sumptuous opponent.  He  changed  his  horse  for  a  proved  and 
fresh  one  of  great  strength  and  spirit.  He  chose  a  new  and 
a  tough  spear,  lest  the  wood  of  the  former  might  have  been 
strained  in  the  previous  encounters  he  had  sustained.  Lastly  he 
laid  aside  his  shield,  which  had  received  some  little  damage,  and 
received  another  from  his  squires.  His  first  had  only  borne 
the  general  device  of  his  rider,  representing  two  knights  riding 
upon  one  horse, —  an  emblem  expressive  of  the  original  humility 
and  poverty  of  the  Templars;  qualities  which  they  had  since 
exchanged  for  the  arrogance  and  wealth  that  finally  occasioned 
their  suppression.  Bois-Guilbert's  new  shield  bore  a  raven  in  full 
flight,  holding  in  its  claws  a  skull,  and  bearing  the  motto,  Gare 
le  Corbeau. 

When  the  two  champions  stood  opposed  to  each  other  at  the 
two  extremities  of  the  lists,  the  public  expectation  was  strained 
to  the  highest  pitch.  Few  augured  the  possibility  that  the  en- 
counter could  terminate  well  for  the  Disinherited  Knight,  yet 
his  courage  and  gallantry  secured  the  general  good  wishes  of  the 
spectators. 

The  trumpets  had  no  sooner  given  the  signal  than  the  cham- 
pions vanished  from  their  posts  with  the  speed  of  lightning,  and 
closed  in  the  centre  of  the  lists  with  the  shock  of  a  thunderbolt. 
The  lances  burst  into  shivers  up  to  the  very  grasp,  and  it  seemed 
at  the  moment  that  both  knights  had  fallen,  for  the  shock  had 
made  each  horse  recoil  backward  upon  his  haunches.  The  ad- 
dress of  the  riders  recovered  their  steeds  by  use  of  the  bridle 
and  spur;  and  having  glared  on  each  other  for  an  instant  with 
eyes  which   seemed  to  flash  fire  through  the  bars  of  their  visors, 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  13043 

each  made  a  demivolte,  and  retiring  to  the  extremity  of  the  lists, 
received  a  fresh  lance  from  the  attendants. 

A  loud  shout  from  the  spectators,  waving  of  scarfs  and  hand- 
kerchiefs, and  general  acclamations,  attested  the  interest  taken 
by  the  spectators  in  this  encounter;  the  most  equal,  as  well  as 
the  best  performed,  which  had  graced  the  day.  But  no  sooner 
had  the  knights  resumed  their  station,  than  the  clamor  of  ap- 
plause was  hushed  into  a  silence  so  deep  and  so  dead  that  it 
seemed  the   multitude   were   afraid   even   to  breathe. 

A  few  minutes'  pause  having  been  allowed,  that  the  combat- 
ants and  their  horses  might  recover  breath.  Prince  John  with  his 
truncheon  signed  to  the  trumpets  to  sound  the  onset.  The  cham- 
pions a  second  time  sprung  from  their  stations,  and  closed  in  the 
centre  of  the  lists,  with  the  same  speed,  the  same  dexterity,  the 
same  violence,  but  not  the  same  equal  fortune  as  before. 

In  the  second  encounter  the  Templar  aimed  at  the  centre  of 
his  antagonist's  shield,  and  struck  it  so  fair  and  forcibly  that  his 
spear  went  to  shivers,  and  the  Disinherited  Knight  reeled  in  his 
saddle.  On  the  other  hand,  that  champion  had,  in  the  begin- 
ning of  his  career,  directed  the  point  of  his  lance  toward  Bois- 
Guilbert's  shield;  but  changing  his  aim  almost  in  the  moment  of 
encounter,  he  addressed  it  to  the  helmet, — a  mark  more  difficult 
to  hit,  but  which  if  attained  rendered  the  shock  more  irresisti- 
ble. Fair  and  true  he  hit  the  Norman  on  the  visor,  where  his 
lance's  point  kept  hold  of  the  bars.  Yet  even  at  this  disadvan- 
tage, the  Templar  sustained  his  high  reputation;  and  had  not  the 
girths  of  his  saddle  burst,  he  might  not  have  been  unhorsed. 
As  it  chanced,  however,  saddle,  horse,  and  man  rolled  on  the 
ground  under  a  cloud  of  dust. 

To  extricate  himself  from  the  stirrups  and  fallen  steed  was  to 
the  Templar  scarce  the  work  of  a  moment;  and  stung  with  mad- 
ness, both  at  his  disgrace  and  at  the  acclamations  with  which  it 
was  hailed  by  the  spectators,  he  drew  his  sword  and  waved  it  in 
defiance  of  his  conqueror.  The  Disinherited  Knight  sprung  from 
his  steed,  and  also  unsheathed  his  sword.  The  marshals  of  the 
field,  however,  spurred  their  horses  between  them,  and  reminded 
them  that  the  laws  of  the  tournament  did  not,  on  the  present 
occasion,  permit   this  species  of  encounter. 

"We  shall  meet  again,  I  trust,"  said  the  Templar,  casting  a 
resentful  glance  at  his  antagonist ;  "  and  where  there  are  none  to 
separate  us." 


I -,04  A  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

"If  we  do  not,''  said  the  Disinherited  Knight,  "the  fault  shall 
not  be  mine.  On  foot  or  horseback,  with  spear,  with  axe,  or 
with   sword,   I   am  alike   ready  to  encounter  thee.'* 

More  and  angrier  words  would  have  been  exchanged;  but  the 
marshals,  crossing  their  lances  betwixt  them,  compelled  them  to 
separate.  The  Disinherited  Knight  returned  to  his  first  station, 
and  Bois-Guilbert  to  his  tent,  where  he  remained  for  the  rest  of 
the  day  in  an  agony  of  despair. 

Without  alighting  from  his  horse,  the  conqueror  called  for  a 
bowl  of  wine;  and  opening  the  beaver,  or  lower  part  of  his  hel- 
met, announced  that  he  quaffed  it  "  To  all  true  English  hearts, 
and  to  the  confusion  of  foreign  tyrants.*'  He  then  commanded 
his  trumpet  to  sound  a  defiance  to  the  challengers;  and  desired 
a  herald  to  announce  to  them  that  he  should  make  no  election, 
but  was  willing  to  encounter  them  in  the  order  in  which  they 
pleased  to  advance  against  him. 

The  gigantic  Front-de-Boeuf,  armed  in  sable  armor,  was  the 
first  who  took  the  field.  He  bore  on  a  white  shield  a  black  bull's 
head,  half  defaced  by  the  numerous  encounters  which  he  had 
Undergone,  and  bearing  the  arrogant  motto.  Cave,  adsuni.  Over 
this  champion  the  Disinherited  Knight  obtained  a  slight  but 
decisive  advantage.  Both  knights  broke  their  lances  fairly;  but 
Front-de-Boeuf,  who  lost  a  stirrup  in  the  encounter,  was  adjudged 
to  have  the  disadvantage. 

In  the  stranger's  third  encounter,  with  Sir  Philip  Malvoisin, 
he  was  equally  successful;  striking  that  baron  so  forcibly  on  the 
casque  that  the  laces  of  the  helmet  broke,  and  Malvoisin,  only 
saved  from  falling  by  being  unhelmeted,  was  declared  vanquished 
like  his  companions. 

In  his  fourth  combat,  with  De  Grantmesnil,  the  Disinherited 
Knight  showed  as  much  courtesy  as  he  had  hitherto  evinced 
courage  and  dexterity.  De  Grantmesnil's  horse,  which  was 
young  and  violent,  reared  and  plunged  in  the  course  of  the 
career  so  as  to  disturb  the  rider's  aim ;  and  the  stranger,  declin- 
ing to  take  the  advantage  which  this  accident  afforded  him, 
raised  his  lance,  and  passing  his  antagonist  without  touching 
him,  wheeled  his  horse  and  rode  back  again  to  his  own  end  of 
the  lists,  offering  his  antagonist  by  a  herald  the  chance  of  a 
second  encounter.  This  De  Grantmesnil  declined,  avowing  him- 
self vanquished  as  much  by  the  courtesy  as  by  the  address  of 
his  opponent. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  1 3045 

Ralph  de  Vipont  summed  up  the  list  of  the  stranger's  tri- 
umphs, being  hurled  to  the  ground  with  such  force  that  the 
blood  gushed  from  his  nose  and  mouth;  and  he  was  borne  sense- 
less from  the  lists. 

The  acclamations  of  thousands  applauded  the  unanimous  award 
of  the  prince  and  marshals,  announcing  that  day's  honors  to  the 
Disinherited  Knight. 


THE  HERMIT— FRIAR  TUCK 
From  <  Ivanhoe  > 

THE  anchorite,  not  caring  again  to  expose  his  door  to  a  similar 
shock,  now  called  out  aloud,  *'  Patience,  patience  —  spare  thy 
strength,  good  traveler,  and  T  will  presently  undo  the  door; 
though  it  may  be  my  doing  so  will  be  little  to  thy  pleasure.** 

The  door  accordingly  was  opened;  and  the  hermit  —  a  large, 
strong-built  man,  in  his  sackcloth  gown  and  hood,  girt  with  a 
rope  of  rushes  —  stood  before  the  knight.  He  had  in  one  hand 
a  lighted  torch,  or  link;  and  in  the  other  a  baton  of  crab-tree, 
so  thick  and  heavy  it  might  well  be  termed  a  club.  Two  large 
shaggy  dogs,  half  greyhound,  half  mastiff,  stood  ready  to  rush 
upon  the  traveler  as  soon  as  the  door  should  be  opened.  But 
when  the  torch  glanced  upon  the  lofty  crest  and  golden  spurs 
of  the  knight  who  stood  without,  the  hermit  —  altering  probably 
his  original  intentions  —  repressed  the  rage  of  his  auxiliaries,  and 
changing  his  tone  to  a  sort  of  churlish  courtesy,  invited  the 
knight  to  enter  his  hut;  making  excuse  for  his  unwillingness 
to  open  his  lodge  after  sunset  by  alleging  the  multitude  of  rob- 
bers and  outlaws  who  were  abroad,  and  who  gave  no  honor 
to  our  Lady  or  St.  Dustan,  nor  to  those  holy  men  who  spent  life 
in  their  service. 

"The  poverty  of  your  cell,  good  father,**  said  the  knight, 
looking  around  him,  and  seeing  nothing  but  a  bed  of  leaves,  a 
crucifix  rudely  carved  in  oak,  a  missal,  with  a  rough-hewn  table 
and  two  stools,  and  one  or  two  clumsy  articles  of  furniture, — 
"  the  poverty  of  your  cell  should  seem  a  sufficient  defense  against 
any  risk  of  thieves;  not  to  mention  the  aid  of  two  trusty  dogs, 
large  and  strong  enough,  I  think,  to  pull  down  a  stag,  and  of 
course  to  match  with  most  men.** 


13046 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT 


*^The  good  keeper  of  the  forest,'*  said  the  hermit,  ^^hath  al- 
lowed me  the  use  of  these  animals  to  protect  my  solitude  until 
the  times  shall  mend.'* 

Having  said  this,  he  fixed  his  torch  in  a  twisted  branch  of 
iron  which  served  for  a  candlestick;  and  placing  the  oaken  trivet 
before  the  embers  of  the  fire,  which  he  refreshed  with  some  dry 
wood,  he  placed  a  stool  upon  one  side  of  the  table  and  beckoned 
to  the  knight  to  do  the  same  upon  the  other. 

They  sat  down  and  gazed  with  great  gravity  at  each  other, 
each  thinking  in  his  heart  that  he  had  seldom  seen  a  stronger  or 
more  athletic  figure  than  was  placed  opposite  to  him. 

^*  Reverend  hermit,'*  said  the  knight,  after  looking  long  and 
fixedly  at  his  host,  ^^  were  it  not  to  interrupt  your  devout  medi- 
tations, I  would  pray  to  know  three  things  of  your  Holiness: 
first,  where  I  am  to  put  my  horse  ?  secondly,  what  I  can  have 
for  supper  ?  thirdly,  where  I  am  to  take  up  my  couch  for  the 
night  ? » 

"I  will  reply  to  you,"  said  the  hermit,  "with  my  finger:  it 
being  against  my  rule  to  speak  by  words  where  signs  can  an- 
swer the  purpose."  So  saying,  he  pointed  successively  to  two 
corners  of  the  hut.  "Your  stable,"  said  he,  "is  there  —  your 
bed  there;  and  — "  reaching  down  a  platter  with  two  handfuls  of 
parched  pease  upon  it  from  the  neighboring  shelf,  and  placing  it 
upon  the  table,  he  added  —  "your  supper  is  here." 

The  knight  shrugged  his  shoulders;  and  leaving  the  hut, 
brought  in  his  horse  (which  in  the  interim  he  had  fastened  to  a 
tree),  unsaddled  him  with  much  attention,  and  spread  upon  the 
Steed's  weary  back  his  own  mantle. 

The  hermit  was  apparently  somewhat  moved  to  compassion 
by  the  anxiety  as  well  as  address  which  the  stranger  displayed 
in  tending  his  horse;  for,  muttering  something  about  proven- 
der left  for  the  keeper's  palfrey,  he  dragged  out  of  a  recess  a 
bundle  of  forage,  which  he  spread  before  the  knight's  charger, 
and  immediately  afterward  shook  down  a  quantity  of  dried 
fern  in  the  corner  which  he  had  assigned  for  the  rider's  couch. 
The  knight  returned  him  thanks  for  his  courtesy;  and  this  duty 
done,  both  resumed  their  seats  by  the  table,  whereon  stood  the 
trencher  of  pease  placed  between  them.  The  hermit,  after  a 
long  grace, — which  had  once  been  Latin,  but  of  which  original 
language  few  traces  remained,  excepting  here  and  there  the  long 
rolling  termination  of  some  word  or  phrase, —  set  example  to  his 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  1 3047 

guest  by  modestly  putting-  into  a  very  large  mouth,  furnished 
with  teeth  which  might  have  ranked  with  those  of  a  boar  both  in 
sharpness  and  whiteness,  some  three  or  four  dried  pease;  a  mis- 
erable grist,  as  it  seemed,  for  so  large  and  able  a  mill. 

The  knight,  in  order  to  follow  so  laudable  an  example,  laid 
aside  his  helmet,  his  corselet,  and  the  greater  part  of  his  armor; 
and  showed  to  the  hermit  a  head  thick-curled  with  yellow 
hair,  high  features,  blue  eyes  remarkably  bright  and  sparkling,  a 
mouth  well  formed,  having  an  upper  lip  clothed  with  mustaches 
darker  than  his  hair, —  and  bearing  altogether  the  look  of  a 
bold,  daring,  and  enterprising  man,  with  which  his  strong  form 
well  corresponded. 

The  hermit,  as  if  wishing  to  answer  to  the  confidence  of  his 
guest,  threw  back  his  cowl,  and  showed  a  round  bullet  head 
belonging  to  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life.  His  close-shaven  crown, 
surrounded  by  a  circle  of  stiff  curled  black  hair,  had  something 
the  appearance  of  a  parish  pinfold  begirt  .  by  its  high  hedge. 
The  features  expressed  nothing  of  monastic  austerity  or  of  ascetic 
privations;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  a  bold,  bluff  countenance, 
with  broad  black  eyebrows,  a  well-turned  forehead,  and  cheeks 
as  round  and  vermilion  as  those  of  a  trumpeter,  from  which 
descended  a  long  and  curly  black  beard.  Such  a  visage,  joined 
to  the  brawny  form  of  the  holy  man,  spoke  rather  of  sirloins  and 
haunches  than  of  pease  and  pulse.  This  incongruity  did  not 
escape  the  guest.  After  he  had  with  great  difficulty  accomplished 
the  mastication  of  a  mouthful  of  the  dried  pease,  he  found  it 
absolutely  necessary  to  request  his  pious  entertainer  to  furnish 
him  with  some  liquor;  who  replied  to  his  request  by  placing 
before  him  a  large  can  of  the  purest  water  from  the  fountain. 

*^  It  is  from  the  well  of  St.  Dunstan,'^  said  he,  "in  which, 
betwixt  sun  and  sun,  he  baptized  five  hundred  heathen  Danes 
and  Britons  —  blessed  be  his  name!'*  And  applying  his  black 
beard  to  the  pitcher,  he  took  a  draught  much  more  moderate  in 
quantity  than  his  encomium  seemed  to  warrant. 

**  It  seems  to  me,  reverend  father,'*  said  the  knight,  "that  the 
small  morsels  which  you  eat,  together  with  this  holy  but  some- 
what thin  beverage,  have  thriven  with  you  marvelously.  You 
appear  a  man  more  fit  to  win  the  ram  at  a  wrestling-match,  or 
the  ring  at  a  bout  at  quarter-staff,  or  the  bucklers  at  a  sword- 
play,  than  to  linger  out  your  time  in  this  desolate  wilderness, 
saying   masses   and   living   upon   parched  pease  and  cold  water." 


13048  SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

"Sir  Knight/'  answered  the  hermit,  "your  thoughts,  Hke  those 
of  the  ignorant  laity,  are  according  to  the  flesh.  It  has  pleased 
our  Lady  and  my  patron  saint  to  bless  the  pittance  to  which  I 
restrain  myself,  even  as  the  pulse  and  water  were  blessed  to  the 
children  Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abednego,  who  drank  the  same 
rather  than  defile  themselves  with  the  wine  and  meats  which 
were  appointed  them  by  the  king  of  the   Saracens." 

*  Holy  father,"  said  the  knight,  "upon  whose  countenance  it 
hath  pleased  Heaven  to  work  such  a  miracle,  permit  a  sinful 
layman  to   crave   thy   name  ? " 

"Thou  mayest  call  me,"  answered  the  hermit,  "the  Clerk  of 
Copmanhurst,  for  so  I  am  termed  in  these  parts.  They  add,  it 
is  true,  the  epithet  holy;  but  I  stand  not  upon  that,  as  being 
unworthy  of  such  addition.  And  now,  valiant  knight,  may  I 
pray  thee   for  the   name   of  my  honorable   guest  ? " 

"  Truly, "  said  the  knight,  "  Holy  Clerk  of  Copmanhurst,  men 
call  me  in  these  parts  the  Black  Knight;  many,  sir,  add  to  it 
the  epithet  of  Sluggard,  whereby  I  am  no  way  ambitious  to  be 
distinguished. " 

The  hermit  could  scarcely  forbear  from  smiling  at  his  guest's 
reply. 

"I  see,"  said  he,  "Sir  Sluggish  Knight,  that  thou  art  a  man 
of  prudence  and  of  counsel;  and  moreover,  I  see  that  my  poor 
monastic  fare  likes  thee  not,  accustomed  perhaps  as  thou  hast 
been  to  the  license  of  courts  and  camps,  and  the  luxuries  of 
cities:  and  now  I  bethink  me,  Sir  Sluggard,  that  when  the 
charitable  keeper  of  this  forest  walk  left  these  dogs  for  my  pro- 
tection, and  also  those  bundles  of  forage,  he  left  me  also  some 
food, —  which,  being  unfit  for  my  use,  the  very  recollection  of 
it  had  escaped  me  amid  my  more  weighty  meditations." 

"  I  dare  be  sworn  he  did  so, "  said  the  knight ;  "  I  was  con- 
vinced that  there  was  better  food  in  the  cell.  Holy  Clerk,  since 
you  first  doffed  your  cowl.  Your  keeper  is  ever  a  jovial  fellow; 
and  none  who  beheld  thy  grinders  contending  with  these  pease, 
and  thy  throat  flooded  with  this  ungenial  element,  could  see  thee 
doomed  to  such  horse-provender  and  horse-beverage "  (pointing 
to  the  provisions  upon  the  table),  "and  refrain  from  mending  thy 
cheer.     Let  us  see  the  keeper's  bounty,  therefore,  without  delay." 

The  hermit  cast  a  wistful  look  upon  the  knight,  in  which 
there  was  a  sort  of  comic  expression  of  hesitation,  as  if  uncertain 
how   far  he   should   act   prudently  in    trusting   his   guest.     There 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  1 3049 

was,  however,  as  much  of  bold  frankness  in  the  knight's  counte- 
nance as  was  possible  to  be  expressed  by  features.  His  smile 
too  had  something  in  it  irresistibly  comic,  and  gave  an  assurance 
of  faith  and  loyalty  with  which  his  host  could  not  refrain  from 
sympathizing. 

After  exchanging  a  mute  glance  or  two,  the  hermit  went  to 
the  farther  side  of  the  hut  and  opened  a  hutch,  which  was  con- 
cealed with  great  care  and  some  ingenuity.  Out  of  the  recesses 
of  a  dark  closet,  into  which  this  aperture  gave  admittance,  he 
brought  a  large  pasty,  baked  in  a  pewter  platter  of  tmusuai 
dimensions.  This  mighty  dish  he  placed  before  his  guest;  who, 
using  his  poniard  to  cut  it  open,  lost  no  time  in  making  himself 
acquainted  with  its  contents. 

"  How  long  is  it  since  the  good  keeper  has  been  here  ? "  said 
the  knight  to  his  host,  after  having  swallowed  several  hasty  mor- 
sels of  this  reinforcement  to  the  hermit's  good  cheer. 

** About  two  months,"  answered  the  father  hastily. 

^*  By  the  true  Lord,*^  answered  the  knight,  **  everything  in 
yovir  hermitage  is  miraculous,  Holy  Clerk ;  for  I  would  have  been 
sworn  that  the  fat  buck  which  furnished  this  venison  had  been 
running  on  foot  within  the  week." 

The  hermit  was  somewhat  discountenanced  by  this  observa- 
tion; and  moreover,  he  had  made  but  a  poor  figure  while  gazing 
on  the  diminution  of  the  pasty,  on  which  his  guest  was  making 
dangerous  inroads, —  a  warfare  in  which  his  previous  profession 
of  abstinence  left  him  no  pretext  for  joining. 

"I  have  been  in  Palestine,  Sir  Clerk,"  said  the  knight,  stop- 
ping short  of  a  sudden,  **  and  I  bethink  me  it  is  a  custom  there 
that  every  host  who  entertains  a  guest  shall  assure  him  of  the 
wholesomencss  of  his  food  by  partaking  of  it  along  with  him. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  suspect  so  holy  a  man  of  aught  inhospita- 
ble; nevertheless,  I  will  be  highly  bound  to  you  would  you  com- 
ply with  this  Eastern  custom." 

"To  ease  your  unnecessary  scruples,  Sir  Knight,  I  will  for 
once  depart  from  my  rule,"  replied  the  hermit.  And  as  there 
were  no  forks  in  those  days,  his  clutches  were  instantly  in  the 
bowels  of  the  pasty. 

The  ice  of  ceremony  being  once  broken,  it  seemed  matter 
of  rivalry  between  the  guest  and  the  entertainer  which  should 
display  the  best  appetite;  and  although  the  former  had  probably 
fasted  longest,  yet  the  hermit  fairly  surpassed  him. 


13050  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

"Holy  Clerk/'  said  the  knight,  when  his  hunger  was  appeased, 
"  I  would  gage  my  good  horse  yonder  against  a  zecchin,  that 
that  same  honest  keeper  to  whom  we  are  obliged  for  the  venison 
has  left  thee  a  stoup  of  wine,  or  a  runlet  of  canary,  or  some 
such  trifle,  by  way  of  ally  to  this  noble  pasty.  This  would  be 
a  circumstance,  doubtless,  totally  unworthy  to  dwell  in  the  mem- 
ory of  so  rigid  an  anchorite;  yet  I  think  were  you  to  search 
yonder  crypt  once  more,  you  would  find  that  I  am  right  in  my 
conjecture. '^ 

The  hermit  replied  by  a  grin;  and  returning  to  the  hutch,  he 
produced  a  leathern  bottle,  which  might  contain  about  four  quarts. 
He  also  brought  forth  two  large  drinking-cups,  made  out  of  the 
horn  of  the  urus,  and  hooped  with  silver.  Having  made  this 
goodly  provision  for  washing  down  the  supper,  he  seemed  to 
think  no  further  ceremonious  scruple  necessary  on  his  part;  but 
filling  both  cups,  and  saying  in  the  Saxon  fashion,  <<  Wacs  hael, 
Sir  Sluggish  Knight!''    he  emptied  his  own  at  a  draught. 

'-'•  Drink  hael,  Holy  Clerk  of  Copmanhurst!  "  answered  the  war- 
rior, and  did  his  host  reason  in  a  similar  brimmer. 

"Holy  Clerk,"  said  the  stranger,  after  the  first  cup  was  thus 
swallowed,  "  I  cannot  but  marvel  that  a  man  possessed  of  such 
thews  and  sinews  as  thine,  and  who  therewithal  shows  the  talent 
of  so  goodly  a  trencherman,  should  think  of  abiding  by  himself 
in  this  wilderness.  In  my  judgment  you  are  fitter  to  keep  a 
castle  or  a  fort,  eating  of  the  fat  and  drinking  of  the  strong, 
than  to  live  here  upon  pulse  ,and  water,  or  even  upon  the 
charity  of  the  keeper.  At  least  were  I  as  thou,  I  should  find 
myself  both  disport  and  plenty  out  of  the  king's  deer.  There  is 
many  a  goodly  herd  in  these  forests,  and  a  buck  will  never  be 
missed  that  goes  to  the  use  of  St.  Dunstan's  chaplain." 

"Sir  Sluggish  Knight,"  replied  the  clerk,  "these  are  danger- 
ous  words,  and  I  pray  you  to  forbear  them.  I  am  true  hermit 
to  the  King  and  law;  and  were  I  to  spoil  my  liege's  game  1 
should  be  sure  of  the  prison,  and,  an  my  gown  saved  me  not, 
were  in  some  peril  of  hanging." 

"Nevertheless,  were  I  as  thou,"  said  the  knight,  "I  would 
take  my  walk  by  moonlight,  when  foresters  and  keepers  were 
warm  in  bed,  and  ever  and  anon  —  as  I  pattered  my  prayers — I 
would  let  fly  a  shaft  among  the  herds  of  dun  deer  that  feed  in 
the  glades.  Resolve  me.  Holy  Clerk,  hast  thou  never  practiced 
such  a  pastime  ? " 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  13051 

• 

**  Friend  Sluggard,'^  answered  the  hermit,  ^Hhou  hast  seen  all 
that  can  concern  thee  of  my  housekeeping,  and  something  more 
than  he  deserves  who  takes  up  his  quarters  by  violence.  Credit 
me,  it  is  better  to  enjoy  the  good  which  God  sends  thee  than 
to  be  impertinently  curious  how  it  comes.  Fill  thy  cup  and  wel- 
come; and  do  not,  I  pray  thee,  by  further  impertinent  inquiries, 
put  me  to  show  that  thou  couldst  hardly  have  made  good  thy 
lodging  had   I   been  earnest  to  oppose  thee.  *^ 

^*  By  my  faith,**  said  the  knight,  *Uhou  makest  me  more  curi- 
ous than  ever!  Thou  art  the  most  mysterious  hermit  I  ever 
met;  and  I  will  know  more  of  thee  ere  we  part.  As  for  thy 
threats,  know,  holy  man,  thou  speakest  to  one  whose  trade  it  is 
to  find  out  danger  wherever  it  is  to  be  met  with." 

"Sir  Sluggish  Knight,  I  drink  to  thee,**  said  the  hermit, — 
"respecting  thy  valor  much,  but  deeming  wondrous  slightly  of 
thy  discretion.  If  thou  wilt  take  equal  arms  with  me,  I  will 
give  thee,  in  all  friendship  and  brotherly  love,  such  sufificing 
penance  and  complete  absolution  that  thou  shalt  not  for  the  next 
twelve  months  sin  the  sin  of  excess  and  curiosity.** 

The  knight  pledged  him,  and  desired  him  to  name  his  weap- 
ons. 

"There  is  none,**  replied  the  hermit,  "from  the  scissors  of 
Delilah  and  the  tenpenny  nail  of  Jael,  to  the  scimitar  of  Goliah, 
at  which  I  am  not  a  match  for  thee.  But  if  I  am  to  make  the 
election,  what  sayest  thou,  good  friend,  to  these  trinkets  ?  ** 

Thus  speaking,  he  opened  another  hutch  and  took  out  from  it 
a  couple  of  broadswords  and  bucklers,  such  as  were  used  by  the 
yeomanry  of  the  period.  The  knight,  who  watched  his  motions, 
observed  that  this  second  place  of  concealment  was  furnished 
with  two  or  three  good  long-bows,  a  cross-bow,  a  bundle  of  bolts 
for  the  latter,  and  half  a  dozen  sheaves  of  arrows  for  the  former. 
A  harp  and  other  matters  of  very  uncanonical  appearance  were 
also  visible  when  this  dark  recess  was  opened. 

"I  promise  thee,  brother  clerk,**  said  he,  "I  will  ask  thee  no 
more  offensive  questions.  The  contents  of  that  cupboard  are  an 
answer  to  all  my  inquiries;  and  I  see  a  weapon  there**  (here  he 
stooped  and  took  out  the  harp)  "on  which  I  would  more  gladly 
prove  my  skill  with  thee  than  at  the  sword  and  buckler.** 

"I  hope.  Sir  Knight,**  said  the  hermit,  "thou  hast  given  no 
good  reason  for  thy  surname  of  the  Sluggard.  I  do  promise  thee 
I  suspect  thee  grievously.     Nevertheless,  thou  art  my  guest,  and 


13052  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

I  will  not  put  thy  manhood  to  the  proof  without  thine  own  free 
will.  Sit  thee  down,  then,  and  fill  thy  cup;  let  us  drink,  sing, 
and  be  merry.  If  thou  knowest  ever  a  good  lay,  thou  shalt  be 
welcome  to  a  nook  of  pasty  at  Copmanhurst  so  long  as  I  serve 
the  chapel  of  St.  Dunstan, —  which,  please  God,  shall  be  till  I 
change  my  gray  covering  for  one  of  green  turf.  But  come,  fill 
a  flagon,  for  it  will  crave  some  time  to  tune  the  harp;  and 
naught  pitches  the  voice  and  sharpens  the  ear  like  a  cup  of  wine. 
For  my  part,  I  love  to  feel  the  grape  at  my  very  finger-ends 
before  they  make  the  harp-strings  tinkle." 


RICHARD  AND    SALADIN 
From  <The  Talisman  > 

THE  two  heroic  monarchs  —  for  such  they  both  were  —  threw 
themselves  at  once  from  horseback;  and  the  troops  halting 
and  the  music  suddenly  ceasing,  they  advanced  to  meet 
each  other  in  profound  silence,  and  after  a  courteous  inclination 
on  either  side  they  embraced  as  brethren  and  equals.  The  pomp 
and  display  upon  both  sides  attracted  no  further  notice;  no  one 
saw  aught  save  Richard  and  Saladin,  and  they  too  beheld  noth- 
ing but  each  other.  The  looks  with  which  Richard  surveyed 
Saladin  were,  however,  more  intently  curious  than  those  which 
the  Soldan  fixed  upon  him;  and  the  Soldan  also  was  the  first  to 
break  silence. 

^*  The  Melech  Ric  is  welcome  to  Saladin  as  water  to  this  des- 
ert. I  trust  he  hath  no  distrust  of  this  numerous  array.  Except- 
ing the  armed  slaves  of  my  household,  those  who  surround  you 
with  eyes  of  wonder  and  of  welcome  are,  even  the  humblest  Gf 
them,  the  privileged  nobles  of  my  thousand  tribes;  for  who  that 
could  claim  a  title  to  be  present  would  remain  at  home  when 
such  a  prince  was  to  be  seen  as  Richard, —  with  the  terrors 
of  whose  name,  even  on  the  sands  of  Yemen,  the  nurse  stills 
her  child,  and  the  free  Arab  subdues  his  restive  steed!" 

"And  these  are  all  nobles  of  Araby  ? "  said  Richard,  looking 
around  on  wild  forms  with  their  persons  covered  with  haicks, 
their  countenances  swart  with  the  sunbeams,  their  teeth  as  white 
as  ivory,  their  black  eyes  glancing  with  fierce  and  preternatural 
lustre  from  under  the  shade  of  their  turbans,  and  their  dress 
being  in  general  simple  even  to  meanness. 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT  13053 

"They  claim  such  rank,*^  said  Saladin;  *'but  though  numer- 
ous, chey  are  within  the  conditions  of  the  treaty,  and  bear  no 
arms  but  the  sabre  —  even  the  iron  of  their  lances  is  left  behind.'* 

*^  I  fear,'*  muttered  De  Vaux  in  English,  ^*  they  have  left  them 
where  they  can  be  soon  found. — A  most  flourishing  house  of 
Peers,  I  confess,  and  would  find  Westminster  Hall  something  too 
narrow  for  them." 

"Hush,  De  Vaux,'*  said  Richard,  "I  command  thee. —  Noble 
Saladin,  '*  he  said,  "  suspicion  and  thou  cannot  exist  on  the 
same  ground.  Seest  thou,'*  pointing  to  the  litters, —  "I  too  have 
brought  some  champions  with  me,  though  armed  perhaps  in 
breach  of  agreement;  for  bright  eyes  and  fair  features  are  weap- 
ons which  cannot  be  left  behind.'* 

The  Soldan,  turning  to  the  litters,  made  an  obeisance  as  lowly 
as  if  looking  toward  Mecca,  and  kissed  the  sand  in  token  of 
respect. 

"  Nay, "  said  Richard,  "  they  will  not  fear  a  closer  encounter, 
brother:  wilt  thou  not  ride  toward  their  litters?  —  and  the  cur- 
tains will  be  presently  withdrawn." 

"That  may  Allah  prohibit!"  said  Saladin,  "since  not  an  Arab 
looks  on  who  would  not  think  it  shame  to  the  noble  ladies  to  be 
seen  with  their  faces  uncovered." 

"Thou  shalt  see  them,  then,  in  private,  brother,"  answered 
Richard. 

"To  what  purpose?"  answered  Saladin,  mournfully.  "Thy 
last  letter  was,  to  the  hopes  which  I  had  entertained,  like  water 
to  fire;  and  wherefore  should  I  again  light  a  flame  which  may 
indeed  consume,  but  cannot  cheer  me? — But  will  not  my  brother 
pass  to  the  tent  which  his  servant  hath  prepared  for  him  ?  My 
principal  black  slave  hath  taken  order  for  the  reception  of  the 
princesses;  the  officers  of  my  household  will  attend  your  follow- 
ers; and  ourself  will  be  the   chamberlain  of  the  royal   Richard." 

He  led  the  way  accordingly  to  a  splendid  pavilion,  where  was 
everything  that  royal  luxury  could  devise.  De  Vaux,  who  was 
in  attendance,  then  removed  the  chappe  {capa)^  or  long  riding- 
cloak  which  Richard  wore;  and  he  stood  before  Saladin  in  the 
close  dress  which  showed  to  advantage  the  strength  and  sym- 
metry of  his  person,  while  it  bore  a  strong  contrast  to  the  flow- 
ing robes  which  disguised  the  thin  frame  of  the  Eastern  monarch. 
It  was  Richard's  two-handed  sword  that  chiefly  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  Saracen, —  a  broad,  straight  blade,  the  seemingly 


,,„-^  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

13054 

unwieldy  length  of  which  extended  well-nigh  from  the  shoulder 
to  the  heel  of  the  wearer. 

«Had  I  not,»  said  Saladin,  «seen  this  brand  flaming  in  the 
front  of  battle,  like  that  of  Azrael,  I  had  scarce  believed  that 
human  arm  could  wield  it.  Might  I  request  to  see  the  Melech 
Ric  strike  one  blow  with  it  in  peace,  and  in  pure  trial  of 
strength  ?  '^ 

"Willingly,  noble  Saladin,'*  answered  Richard;  and  looking 
around  for  something  whereon  to  exercise  his  strength,  he  saw 
a  steel  mace,  held  by  one  of  the  attendants,  the  handle  being  ot 
the  same  metal,  and  about  an  inch  and  a  half  in  diameter:  this 
he  placed  on  a  block  of  wood. 

The  anxiety  of  De  Vaux  for  his  master's  honor  led  him  to 
whisper  in  English,  «  For  the  Blessed  Virgin's  sake,  beware  what 
you  attempt,  my  liege!  Your  full  strength  is  not  as  yet  returned: 
give  no  triumph  to  the  infidel.** 

« Peace,  fool!»  said  Richard,  standing  firm  on  his  ground, 
and  casting  a  fierce  glance  around:  "thinkest  thou  that  I  can  fail 
in  /ns  presence  ?  ** 

The  glittering  broadsword,  wielded  by  both  his  hands,  rose 
aloft  to  the  King's  left  shoulder,  circled  round  his  head,  de- 
scended with  the  sway  of  some  terrific  engine,  and  the  bar  of 
iron  rolled  on  the  ground  in  two  pieces,  as  a  woodsman  would 
sever  a  sapling  with  a  hedging-bill. 

«  By  the  head  of  the  Prophet,  a  most  wonderful  blow !  **  said 
the  Soldan,  critically  and  accurately  examining  the  iron  bar 
which  had  been  cut  asunder;  and  the  blade  of  the  sword  was  so 
well  tempered  as  to  exhibit  not  the  least  token  of  having  suffered 
by  the  feat  it  had  performed.  He  then  took  the  King's  hand, 
and  looking  on  the  size  and  muscular  strength  which  it  exhib- 
ited, laughed  as  he  placed  it  beside  his  own,  so  lank  and  thin,  so 
inferior  in  brawn  and  sinew. 

«Ay,  look  well,'*  said  De  Vaux  in  English:  «it  will  be  long 
ere  your  long  jackanapes  fingers  do  such  a  feat  with  your  fine 
gilded  reaping-hook  there.** 

«  Silence,  De  Vaux,^'  said  Richard:  «by  our  Lady,  he  under- 
stands or  guesses   thy  meaning;    be  not  so  broad,   I   pray  thee.** 

The  Soldan  indeed  presently  said,  «  Something  I  would  fain 
attempt  —  though  wherefore  should  the  weak  show  their  inferi- 
ority in  presence  of  the  strong?  Yet  each  land  hath  its  own 
exercises,  and  this  may  be  new  to  the  Melech  Ric.**      So  saying. 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT  13055 

he  took  from  the  floor  a  cushion  of  silk  and  down,  and  placed  it 
upright  on  one  end,  **  Can  thy  weapon,  my  brother,  sever  that 
cushion  ?  ^*  he  said  to  King-  Richard. 

"No,  surely,**  replied  the  King:  "no  sword  on  earth,  were  it 
the  Excalibar  of  King  Arthur,  can  cut  that  which  opposes  no 
steady  resistance  to  the  blow.** 

"Mark,  then,**  said  Saladin;  and  tucking  up  the  sleeve  of  h.s 
gown,  showed  his  arm,  thin  indeed  and  spare,  but  which  con- 
stant exercise  had  hardened  into  a  mass  consisting  of  naught  but 
bone,  brawn,  and  sinew.  He  unsheathed  his  scimitar;  a  curved 
and  narrow  blade,  which  glittered  not  like  the  swords  of  the 
Franks,  but  was  on  the  contrary  of  a  dull-blue  color,  marked 
with  ten  millions  of  meandering  lines  which  showed  how  anx- 
iously the  metal  had  been  welded  by  the  armorer.  Wielding 
this  weapon,  apparently  so  inefhcient  when  compared  to  that  of 
Richard,  the  Soldan  stood  resting  his  weight  upon  his  left  foot, 
which  was  slightly  advanced;  he  balanced  himself  a  little  as  if  to 
steady  his  aim;  then  stepping  at  once  forward,  drew  the  scimitar 
across  the  cushion,  applying  the  edge  so  dexterously  and  with  so 
little  apparent  effort  that  the  cushion  seemed  rather  to  fall  asun- 
der than  to  be  divided  by  violence. 

"It  is  a  juggler's  trick,**  said  De  Vaux,  darting  forward  and 
snatching  up  the  portion  of  the  cushion  which  had  been  cut  off, 
as  if -to  assure  himself  of  the  reality  of  the  feat, —  "there  is  gram- 
arye  in  this.** 

The  Soldan  seemed  to  comprehend  him;  for  he  undid  the 
sort  of  veil  which  he  had  hitherto  worn,  laid  it  double  along  the 
edge  of  his  sabre,  extended  the  weapon  edgeways  in  the  air, 
and  drawing  it  suddenly  through  the  veil,  although  it  hung  on 
the  blade  entirely  loose,  severed  that  also  into  two  parts,  which 
floated  to  different  sides  of  the  tent, —  equally  displaying  the 
extreme  temper  and  sharpness  of  the  weapon,  and  the  exquisite 
dexterity  of  him  who  used  it. 

"Now,  in  good  faith,  my  brother,**  said  Richard,  "  tliou  art 
even  matchless  at  the  trick  of  the  sword,  and  right  perilous  were 
it  to  meet  thee!  Still,  however,  I  put  some  faith  in  a  down- 
right English  blow;  and  what  we  cannot  do  by  sleight,  we  eke 
out  by  strength.  Nevertheless,  in  truth  thou  art  as  expert  in 
inflicting  wounds  as  my  sage  Hakim  in  curing  them.  I  trust  1 
shall  see  the  learned  leech :  I  have  much  to  thank  him  for,  and 
had  brought  some  small  present" 


13056  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

As  he  spoke,  Saladin  exchanged  his  turban  for  a  Tartar  cap. 
He  had  no  sooner  done  so,  than  De  Vatix  opened  at  once  his 
extended  mouth  and  his  large  round  eyes,  and  Richard  gazed 
with  scarce  less  astonishment,  while  the  Soldan  spoke  in  a  grave 
and  altered  voice:  « The  sick  man,  sayeth  the  poet,  while  he  is 
yet  infirm  knoweth  the  physician  by  his  step;  but  when  he  is 
recovered  he  knoweth  not  even  his  face  when  he  looks  upon 
him.» 

«A  miracle!   a  miracle !»   exclaimed  Richard. 

«Of  Mahound's  working,  doubtless, »  said  Thomas  de  Vaux. 

"That  I  should  lose  my  learned  Hakim, »  said  Richard,  « merely 
by  absence  of  his  cap  and  robe,  and  that  I  should  find  him  again 
in  my  royal  brother  Saladin!" 

« Such  is  oft  the  fashion  of  the  world, »  answered  the  Soldan : 
"the  tattered  robe  makes  not  always  the  dervish.*^ 

«And  it  was  through  thy  intercession,"  said  Richard,  «that 
yonder  Knight  of  the  Leopard  was  saved  from  death,  and  by  thy 
artifice  that  he  revisited  my  camp  in  disguise ! " 

"Even  so,»  replied  Saladin:  «I  was  physician  enough  to  know 
that  tinless  the  wounds  of  his  bleeding  honor  were  stanched,  the 
days  of  his  life  must  be  few.  His  disguise  was  more  easily  pene- 
trated than  I  had  expected  from  the  success  of  my  own." 

«An  accident,"  said  King  Richard  (probably  alluding  to  the 
circumstance  of  his  applying  his  lips  to  the  wound  of  the  sup- 
posed Nubian),  « let  me  first  know  that  his  skin  was  artificially 
discolored;  and  that  hint  once  taken,  detection  became  easy,  for 
his  form  and  person  are  not  to  be  forgotten.  I  confidently  ex. 
pect  that  he  will  do  battle  on  the  morrow." 

"He  is  full  in  preparation  and  high  in  hope,"  said  the  Soldan. 
«I  have  furnished  him  with  weapons  and  horse,  thinking  nobly 
of  him  from  what  I  have  seen  under  various  disguises." 

"Knows  he  now,"  said  Richard,  "to  whom  he  lies  under  obli- 
gation ? " 

"He  doth,"  replied  the  Saracen;  "I  was  obliged  to  confess 
my  person  when  I  unfolded  my  purpose." 

"And  confessed  he  aught  to  you  ? "  said  the  King  of  England. 

"Nothing  explicit,"  replied  the  Soldan;    "but  from  much  that 
passed  between  us,  I  conceive  his  love  is  too  highly  placed  to  be. 
happy  in  its  issue." 

"And  thou  knowest  that  his  daring  and  insolent  passion  crossed 
thine  own  wishes?"  said  Richard. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  13057 

**I  might  guess  so  much,*^  said  Saladin;  "but  his  passion  had 
existed  ere  my  wishes  had  been  formed  —  and,  I  must  now  add, 
is  likely  to  survive  them.  I  cannot,  in  honor,  revenge  me  for 
my  disappointment  on  him  who  had  no  hand  in  it.  Or  if  this 
high-born  dame  loved  him  better  than  myself,  who  can  say  that 
she  did  not  justice  to  a  knight  of  her  own  religion,  who  is  full 
of  nobleness  ? " 

* "  Yet  of  too  mean   lineage  to  mix  with  the   blood  of  Planta- 
genet,**  said   Richard  haughtily. 

"Such  may  be  your  maxims  in  Frangistan,*^  replied  the  Sol- 
dan.  "  Our  poets  of  the  Eastern  countries  say  that  a  valiant 
camel-driver  is  worthy  to  kiss  the  lip  of  a  fair  Queen,  when  a 
cowardly  prince  is  not  worthy  to  salute  the  hem  of  her  garment. 
But  with  your  permission,  noble  brother,  I  must  take  leave  of 
thee  for  the  present,  to  receive  the  Duke  of  Austria  and  yonder 
Nazarene  knight, —  much  less  worthy  of  hospitality,  but  who 
must  yet  be  suitably  entreated,  not  for  their  sakes,  but  for  mine 
own  honor;  —  for  what  saith  the  sage  Lokman  ?  *  Say  not  that 
the  food  is  lost  unto  thee  which  is  given  to  the  stranger;  for  if 
his  body  be  strengthened  and  fattened  therewithal,  not  less  is 
thine  own  worship  and  good  name  cherished  and  augmented.  ^  *^ 

The  Saracen  monarch  departed  from  King  Richard's  tent;  and 
having  indicated  to  him,  rather  with  signs  than  with  speech, 
where  the  pavilion  of  the  Queen  and  her  attendants  was  pitched, 
he  went  to  receive  the  Marquis  of  Montserrat  and  his  attend- 
ants, for  whom,  with  less  good-will  but  with  equal  splendor,  the 
magnificent  Soldan  had  provided  accommodations.  The  most 
ample  refreshments,  both  in  the  Oriental  and  after  the  European 
fashion,  were  spread  before  the  royal  and  princely  guests  of 
Saladin,  each  in  their  own  separate  pavilion;  and  so  attentive 
was  the  Soldan  to  the  habits  and  taste  of  his  visitors,  that 
Grecian  slaves  were  stationed  to  present  them  with  the  goblet,  • 
which  is  the  abomination  of  the  sect  of  Mohammed.  Ere  Rich- 
ard had  finished  his  meal,  the  ancient  Omrah,  who  had  brought 
the  Soldan's  letter  to  the  Christian  camp,  entered  with  a  plan 
of  the  ceremonial  to  be  observed  on  the  succeeding  day  of  the 
combat.  Richard,  who  knew  the  taste  of  his  old  acquaintance, 
invited  him  to  pledge  him  in  a  flagon  of  wine  of  Schiraz:  but 
Abdallah  gave  him  to  understand,  with  a  rueful  aspect,  that  self- 
denial,  in  the  present  circumstances,  was  a  matter  in  which  his 
life  was  concerned:    for  that  Saladin,  tolerant  in  many  respects, 


13058 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


both   observed,  and   enforced  by  high   penalties,  the   laws  of  the 
Prophet. 

"Nay,  then,»  said  Richard,  «if  he  loves  not  wine,  that  light- 
ener  of  the  human  heart,  his  conversion  is  not  to  be  hoped  for, 
and  the  prediction  of  the  mad  priest  of  Engaddi  goes  like  chaff 
down  the  wind.** 


THE   LAST  MINSTREL 
Prelude  to  the  <  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  > 

THE  way  was  long,  the  wind  was  cold, 
The  Minstrel  was  infirm  and  old; 
His  withered  cheek,  and  tresses  gray. 
Seemed  to  have  known  a  better  day; 
The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 
Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 
The  last  of  all  the  Bards  was  he, 
Who  sung  of  Border  chivalry: 
For,  welladay!  their  date  was  fled, 
His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead; 
And  he,  neglected  and  oppressed, 
Wished  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest. 
No  more,  on  prancing  palfrey  borne, 
He  caroled  light  as  lark  at  morn; 
No  longer,  courted  and  caressed. 
High  placed  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest, 
He  poured,  to  lord  and  lady  gay, 
The  unpremeditated  lay: 

Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone; 
A  stranger  filled  the  Stuarts'  throne; 
The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 
Had  called  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 
A  wandering  Harper,  scorned  and  poor, 
He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door; 
And  tuned,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear, 
The  harp  a  king  had  loved  to  hear. 

He  passed  where  Newark's  stately  tower 
Looks  out  from  Yarrow's  birchen  bower: 
The  Minstrel  gazed  with  wishful  eye, — 
No  humbler  resting-place  was  nigh. 
With  hesitating  step,   at   last. 
The  embattled  portal  arch  he    passed. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  13059 

Whose  ponderous  ^ate  and  massy  bar 
Had  oft  rolled  back  the  tide  of  war, 
But  never  closed  the  iron  door 
Against  the  desolate  and  poor. 
The  Duchess  marked  his  weary  pace, 
His  timid  mien,  and  reverend  face, 
And  bade  her  page  the  menials  tell, 
That  they  should  tend  the  old  man  well: 
For  she  had  known  adversity, 
Though  born  in  such  a  high  degree ; 
In  pride  of  power,  in  beauty's  bloom. 
Had  wept  o'er  Monmouth's  bloody  tomb! 

When  kindness  had  his  wants  supplied. 

And  the  old  man  was  gratified, 

Began  to  rise  his  minstrel  pride : 

And  he  began  to  talk  anon 

Of  good  Earl  Francis,  dead  and  gone; 

And  of  Earl  Walter, —  rest  him  God! 

A  braver  ne'er  to  battle  rode;  — 

And  how  full  many  a  tale  he  knew 

Of  the  old  warriors  of  Buccleuch : 

And  would  the  noble  Duchess  deign 

To  listen  to  an  old  man's  strain. 

Though  stiff  his  hands,  his  voice  though  weak, 

He  thought  even  yet,  the  sooth  to  speak. 

That  if  she  loved  the  harp  to  hear. 

He  could  make  music  to  her  ear. 

The  humble  boon  was  soon  obtained; 
The  aged  Minstrel  audience  gained. 
But  when  he  reached  the  room  of  state 
Where  she,  with  all  her  ladies,  sate. 
Perchance  he  wished  his  boon  denied: 
For  when  to  tune  his  harp  he  tried, 
His  trembling  hand  had  lost  the  ease 
Which  marks  security  to  please ; 
And  scenes,  long  past,  of  joy  and  pain. 
Came  wildering  o'er  his  aged  brain, — 
He  tried  to  tune  his  harp  in  vain ! 
The  pitying  Duchess  praised  its  chime. 
And  gave  him  heart,  and  gave  him  time. 
Till  every  string's  according  glee 
T/Vas  blended  into  harmony. 


13060  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 


And  then  he  said,  he  would  full  fain 

He  could  recall  an  ancient  strain, 

He  never  thou.ght  to  sing  again. 

It  was  not  framed  for  village  churls, 

But  for  high  dames  and  mighty  earls; 

He  had  played  it  to  King  Charles  the  Good, 

"When  he  kept  court  in  Holyrood; 

And  much  he  wished,  yet  feared,  to  try 

The  long-forgotten  melody. 

Amid  the  strings  his  fingers  strayed, 
And  an  uncertain  warbling  made. 
And  oft  he  shook  his  hoary  head: 
But  when  he  caught  the  measure  wild. 
The  old  man  raised  his  face,  and  smiled; 
And  lightened  up  his  faded  eye. 
With  all  a  poet's  ecstasy! 
In  varying  cadence,  soft  or  strong. 
He  swept  the  sounding  chords  along; 
The  present  scene,  the  future  lot. 
His  toils,  his  wants,  were  all  forgot; 
Cold  diffidence,  and  age's  frost. 
In  the  full  tide  of  song  were  lost; 
Each  blank  in  faithless  memory  void, 
The  poet's  glowing  thought  supplied;    . 
And  while  his  harp  responsive  rung, 
'Twas  thus  the  Latest  Minstrel  sung. 


LOCH  INVAR 

From  <Marmion> 

OH,  YOUNG  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west: 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons  had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar! 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone; 
He  swam  the  Esk  River  where  ford  there  was  none: 
But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate. 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late; 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  1 3061 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war. 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among  bride's-men,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all: 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword, 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word,) 

"O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war. 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ?>>  — 

*I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied;  — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide! 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine: 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far. 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar. » 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet:  the  knight  took  it  up. 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh. 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar, — 
<<  Now  tread  we  a  measure ! "  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face. 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace: 

"While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume. 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plume; 

And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  <<  'Twere  better  by  far 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar. » 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear. 

When  they  reached  the  hall  door,  and  the  charger  stood  near; 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung. 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung! 

«  She  is  won!  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur: 

They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow, »  quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby  clan: 

Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran; 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 

Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar? 


13062 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 


ELLEN    DOUGLAS'S    BOWER 

The  Retreat  of  the  Douglas 

From  'The  Lady  of  the  Lake> 

IT  WAS  a  lodge  of  ample  size, 
But  strange  of  structure  and  device, 
Of  such  materials  as  around 
The  workman's  hands  had  readiest  found. 
Lopped  off  their  boughs,  their  hoar  trunks  bared. 
And  by  the  hatchet  rudely  squared. 
To  give  the  walls  their  destined  height 
The  sturdy  oak  and  ash  unite; 
While  moss  and  clay  and  leaves  combined 
To  fence  each  crevice  from  the  wind. 
The  lighter  pine-trees  overhead. 
Their  slender  length  for  rafters  spread, 
And  withered  heath  and  rushes  dry 
Supplied  a  russet  canopy. 
Due  westward,  fronting  to  the  green, 
A  rural  portico  was  seen. 
Aloft  on  native  pillars  borne, 
Of  mountain  fir,  with  bark  imshorn, 
Where  Ellen's  hand  had  taught  to  twine 
The  ivy  and  the  Idaean  vine. 
The  clematis,  the  favored  flower 
Which  boasts  the  name  of  virgin-bower, 
And  every  hardy  plant  could  bear 
Loch  Katrine's  keen  and  searching  air. 

An  instant  in  this  porch  she  staid. 
And  gayly  to  the  stranger  said:  — 
<<  On  heaven  and  on  thy  lady  call. 
And  enter  the  enchanted  hall !  * 

«My  hope,  my  heaven,  my  trust  must  be, 
My  gentle  guide,  in  following  thee.^^ 
He  crossed  the  threshold  —  and  a  clang 
Of  angry  steel  that  instant  rang. 
To  his  bold  brow  his  spirit  rushed; 
But  soon  for  vain  alarm  he  blushed, 
When  on  the  floor  he  saw  displayed. 
Cause  of  the  din,  a  naked,  blade. 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  13063 

Dropped  from  the  sheath,  that  careless  flung 

Upon  a  stag's  huge  antlers  swung;  — 

For  all  around,  the  walls  to  grace, 

Hung  trophies  of  the  fight  or  chase: 

A  target  there,  a  bugle  here, 

A  battle-axe,  a  hunting-spear, 

And  broadswords,  bows,  and  arrows  store. 

With  the  tusked  trophies  of  the  boar. 

Here  grins  the  wolf  as  when  he  died, 

And  there  the  wild-cat's  brindled  hide 

The  frontlet  of  the  elk  adorns, 

Or  mantles  o'er  the  bison's  horns; 

Pennons  and  flags  defaced  and  stained. 

That  blackening  streaks  of  blood  retained, 

And  deerskins,  dappled,  dun,  and  white, 

With  otter's  fur  and  seal's  unite. 

In  rude  and  uncouth  tapestry  all, 

To  garnish  forth  the  sylvan  hall. 

The  wondering  stranger  round  him  gazed. 

And  next  the  fallen  weapon  raised;  — 

Few  were  the  arms  whose  sinewy  strength 

Sufficed  to  stretch  it  forth  at  length; 

And  as  the  brand  he  poised  and  swayed, 

*I  never  knew  but  one,'*  he  said, 

« Whose  stalwart  arm  might  brook  to  wield 

A  blade  like  this  in  battle-field.'* 

She  sighed,  then  smiled  and  took  the  word: — 

*You  see  the  guardian  champion's  sword: 

As  light  it  trembles  in  his  hand 

As  in  my  grasp  a  hazel  wand'; 

My  sire's  tall  form  might  grace  the  part 

Of  Ferragus  or  Ascabart: 

But  in  the  absent  giant's  hold 

Are  women  now,  and  menials  old.'* 

The  mistress  of  the  mansion  came: 

Mature  of  age,  a  graceful  dame. 

Whose  easy  step  and  stately  port 

Had  well  become  a  princely  court; 

To  whom,  though  more  than  kindred  knew. 

Young  Ellen  gave  a  mother's  due. 

Meet  welcome  to  her  guest  she  made, 

And  every  courteous  rite  was  paid. 


13064  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

That  hospitality  could  claim, 

Though  all  unasked  his  birth  and  name. 

Such  then  the  reverence  to  a  guest, 

That  fellest  foe  might  join  the  feast. 

And  from  his  deadliest  foeman's  door 

Unquestioned  turn,  the  banquet  o'er. 

At  length  his  rank  the  stranger  names:  — 

*The  Knight  of  Snowdoun,  James  Fitz-James: 

Lord  of  a  barren  heritage. 

Which  his  brave  sires,  from  age  to  age. 

By  their  good  swords  had  held  with  toil; 

His  sire  had  fallen  in  such  turmoil, 

And  he,  God  wot,  was  forced  to  stand 

Oft  for  his  right  with  blade  in  hand. 

This  morning,  with  Lord  Moray's  train, 

He  chased  a  stalwart  stag  in  vain. 

Outstripped  his  comrades,  missed  the  deer, 

Lost  his  good  steed,  and  wandered  here.* 

Fain  would  the  knight  in  turn  require 
The  name  and  state  of  Ellen's  sire. 
Well  showed  the  elder  lady's  mien. 
That  courts  and  cities  she  had  seen; 
Ellen,  though  more  her  looks  displayed 
The  simple  grace  of  sylvan  maid. 
In  speech  and  gesture,  form  and  face, 
Showed  she  was  come  of  gentle  race. 
'Twere  strange  in  ruder  rank  to  find 
Such  looks,  such  manners,  and  such  mind. 
Each  hint  the  Knight  of  Snowdoun  gave, 
Dame  Margaret  heard  with  silence  grave; 
Or  Ellen,  innocently  gay, 
Turned  all  inquiry  light  away:  — 
®  Weird  women  we !  by  dale  and  down 
We  dwell,  afar  from  tower  and  town. 
We  stem  the  flood,  we  ride  the  blast, 
On  wandering  knights  our  spells  we  cast* 
While  viewless  minstrels  touch  the  string, 
'Tis  thus  our  charmed  rhymes  we  sing.* 
She  sung,  and  still  a  harp  unseen 
Filled  up  the  symphony  between. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 


SONG 


13065 


®  Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing: 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er. 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

*No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear. 

Armor's  clang,  nor  war-steed  champing. 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping; 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow. 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum, 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near. 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here; 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  clans,  or  squadrons  stamping.  >* 

She  paused  —  then,  blushing,  led  the  lay 
To  grace  the  stranger  of  the  day. 
Her  mellow  notes  awhile  prolong 
The  cadence  of  the  flowing  song, 
Till  to  her  lips  in  measured  frame 
The  minstrel  verse  spontaneous  came:  — 


SONG   CONTINUED 

** Huntsman,  rest!  thy  chase  is  done; 

While  our  slumb'rous  spells  assail  ye, 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep!  the  deer  is  in  his  den; 

Sleep!  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying; 
Sleep!  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 


13066 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

Huntsman,  rest!  thy  chase  is  done, 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun; 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye, 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille.** 

The  hall  was  cleared;  the  stranger's  bed 

Was  there  of  mountain  heather  spread, 

Where  oft  a  hundred  guests  had  lain, 

And  dreamed  their  forest  sports  again. 

But  vainly  did  the  heath-flower  shed 

Its  moorland  fragrance  round  his  head; 

Not  Ellen's  spell  had  lulled  to  rest 

The  fever  of  his  troubled  breast. 

In  broken  dreams  the  image  rose 

Of  varied  perils,  pains,  and  woes: 

His  steed  now  flounders  in  the  brake, 

Now  sinks  his  barge  upon  the  lake; 

Now  leader  of  a  broken  host. 

His  standard  falls,  his  honor's  lost. 

Then  —  from  my  couch  may  heavenly  might 

Chase  that  worst  phantom  of  the  night!  — 

Again  returned  the  scenes  of  youth. 

Of  confident  undoubting  truth; 

Again  his  soul  he  interchanged 

With  friends  whose  hearts  were  long  estranged. 

They  come,  in  dim  procession  led, 

The  cold,  the  faithless,  and  the  dead; 

As  warm  each  hand,  each  brow  as  gay. 

As  if  they  parted  yesterday : 

And  doubt  distracts  him  at  the  view, — 

Oh,  were  his  senses  false  or  true  ? 

Dreamed  he  of  death,  or  broken  vow, 

Or  is  it  all  a  vision  now  ? 

At  length,  with  Ellen  in  a  grove 

He  seemed  to  walk,  and  speak  of  love: 

She  listened  with  a  blush  and  sigh. 

His  suit  was  warm,  his  hopes  were  high, 

He  sought  her  yielded  hand  to  clasp, 

And  a  cold  gauntlet  met  his  grasp: 

The  phantom's  sex  was  changed  and  gone. 

Upon  its  head  a  helmet  shone; 

Slowly  enlarged  to  giant  size. 

With  darkened  cheek  and  threatening  eyes. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  13067 

The  grisly  visage,  stern  and  hoar. 

To  Ellen  still  a  likeness  bore. — 

He  woke,  and  panting  with  affright, 

Recalled  the  vision  of  the  night. 

The  hearth's  decaying  brands  were  red, 

And  deep  and  dusky  lustre  shed, 

Half  showing,  half  concealing,  all 

The  uncouth  trophies  of  the  hall. 

Mid  those  the  stranger  fixed  his  eye, 

Where  that  huge  falchion  hung  on  high, 

And  thoughts  on  thoughts,  a  countless  throng. 

Rushed,  chasing  countless  thoughts  along. 

Until,  the  giddy  whirl  to  cure, 

He  rose,  and  sought  the  moonshine  pure. 

The  wild  rose,  eglantine,  and  broom. 

Wafted  around  their  rich  perfume; 

The  birch-trees  wept  in  fragrant  balm. 

The  aspens  slept  beneath  the  calm; 

The  silver  light,  with  quivering  glance, 

Played  on  the  water's  still  expanse, — 

Wild  were  the  heart  whose  passion's  sway 

Could  rage  beneath  the  sober  ray! 

He  felt  its  calm,  that  warrior  guest, 

While  thus  he  communed  with  his  breast:— 

*Why  is  it,  at  each  turn  I  trace 

Some  memory  of  that  exiled  race! 

Can  I  not  mountain  maiden  spy. 

But  she  must  bear  the  Douglas  eye  ? 

Can  I  not  view  a  Highland  brand. 

But  it  must  match  the  Douglas  hand  ? 

Can  I  not  frame  a  fevered  dream. 

But  still  the  Douglas  is  the  theme? 

I'll  dream  no  more :  by  manly  mind 

Not  even  in  sleep  is  will  resigned. 

My  midnight  orisons  said  o'er, 

I'll  turn  to  rest,  and  dream  no  more.* 

His  midnight  orisons  he  told, 

A  prayer  with  every  bead  of  gold; 

Consigned  to  heaven  his  cares  and  woes. 

And  sunk  in  undisturbed  repose : 

Until  the  heath-cock  shrilly  crew. 

And  morning  dawned  on  Benvenue. 


13068 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT 

THE   DISCLOSURE 
From  the  <  Lady  of  the  Lake  > 

THAT  early  beam,  so  fair  and  sheen. 
Was  twinkling  through  the  hazel  screen, 
When,  rousing  at  its  glimmer  red. 
The  warriors  left  their  lowly  bed. 
Looked  out  upon  the  dappled  sky. 
Muttered  their  soldier  matins  by, 
And  then  awaked  their  fire,  to  steal. 
As  short  and  rude,  their  soldier  meal. 
That  o'er,  the  Gael  around  him  threw 
His  graceful  plaid  of  varied  hue. 
And,  true  to  promise,  led  the  way 
By  thicket  green  and  mountain  gray. 
A  wildering  path!  —  they  winded  now 
Along  the  precipice's  brow. 
Commanding  the  rich  scenes  beneath, 
The  windings  of  the  Forth  and  Teith, 
And  all  the  vales  between  that  lie. 
Till  Stirling's  turrets  melt  in  sky; 
Then,  sunk  in  copse,  their  farthest  glance 
Gained  not  the  length  of  horseman's  lance. 
'Twas  oft  so  steep,  the  foot  was  fain 
Assistance  from  the  hand  to  gain ; 
So  tangled  oft,  that,  bursting  through, 
Each  hawthorn  shed  her  showers  of  dew, — 
That  diamond  dew,  so  pure  and  clear, 
It  rivals  all  but  Beauty's  tear! 

At  length  they  came  where,  stern  and  steep. 

The  hill  sinks  down  upon  the  deep. 

Here  Vennachar  in  silver  flows, 

There,  ridge  on  ridge,  Benledi  rose: 

Ever  the  hollow  path  twined  on, 

Beneath  steep  bank  and  threatening  stone; 

A  hundred  men  might  hold  the  post 

With  hardihood  against  a  host. 

The  rugged  mountain's  scanty  cloak 

Was  dwarfish  shrubs  of  birch  and  oak, 

With  shingles  bare,  and  cliffs  between. 

And  patches  bright  of  bracken  green. 

And  heather  black,  that  waved  so  high 

It  held  the  copse  in  rivalry. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  13069 

But  where  the  lake  slept  deep  and  still, 
Dank  osiers  fringed  the  swamp  and  hill; 
And  oft  both  path  and  hill  were  torn. 
Where  wintry  torrents  down  had  borne. 
And  heaped  upon  the  cumbered  land 
Its  wreck  of  gravel,  rocks,  and  sand. 
So  toilsome  was  the  road  to  trace. 
The  guide,  abating  of  his  pace, 
Led  slowly  through  the  pass's  jaws, 
And  asked  Fitz-James  by  what  strange  cause 
He  sought  these  wilds?  traversed  by  few, 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu. 

« Brave  Gael,  my  pass,  in  danger  tried, 
Hangs  in  my  belt  and  by  my  side; 
Yet,  sooth  to  tell,»  the  Saxon  said, 
<<  I  dreamt  not  now  to  claim  its  aid. 
When  here,  but  three  days  since,  I  came, 
Bewildered  in  pursuit  of  game. 
All  seemed  as  peaceful  and  as  still 
As  the  mist  slumbering  on  yon  hill; 
Thy  dangerous  chief  was  then  afar, 
Nor  soon  expected  back  from  war: 
Thus  said,  at  least,  my  mountain  guide, 
Though  deep  perchance  the  villain  lied.**  — 
"Y'jt  why  a  second  venture  try?**  — 
«A  warrior  thou,  and  ask  me  why! 
Moves  our  free  course  by  such  fixed  cause 
As  gives  the  poor  mechanic  laws? 
Enough,  I  sought  to  drive  away 
The  lazy  hours  of  peaceful  day: 
Slight  cause  will  then  suffice  to  guide 
A  knight's  free  footsteps  far  and  wide, — 
A  falcon  flown,  a  greyhound  strayed. 
The  merry  glance  of  mountain  maid; 
Or,  if  a  path  be  dangerous  known. 
The  danger's  self  is  lure  alone.** 

"Thy  secret  keep,  I  urge  thee  not;  — 
Yet,  ere  again  ye  sought  this  spot. 
Say,  heard  ye  naught  of  Lowland  war 
Against  Clan- Alpine,  raised  by  Mar?**  — 
«No,  by  my  word;  —  of  bands  prepared 
To  guard  King  James's  sports  I  heard; 


13070 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

Nor  doubt  I  aught,  but  when  they  hear 
This  muster  of  the  mountaineer, 
Their  pennons  will  abroad  be  flung, 
Which  else  in  Doune  had  peaceful  hung.'*  — 
*Free  be  they  flung!  —  for  we  were  loth 
Their  silken  folds  should  feast  the  moth. 
Free  be  they  flung!  —  as  free  shall  wave 
Clan- Alpine's  pine  in  banner  brave. 
But,  stranger,  peaceful  since  you  came, 
Bewildered  in  the  mountain  game. 
Whence  the  bold  boast  by  which  you  show 
Vich- Alpine's  vowed  and  mortal  foe?'*  — 
*  Warrior,  but  yester-morn  I  knew 
Naught  of  thy  chieftain,  Roderick  Dhu, 
Save  as  an  outlawed  desperate  man, 
The  chief  of  a  rebellious  clan. 
Who,  in  the  Regent's  court  and  sight, 
With  ruffian  dagger  stabbed  a  knight; 
Yet  this  alone  might  from  his  part 
Sever  each  true  and  loyal  heart.  *' 

Wrathful  at  such  arraignment  foul, 
Dark  lowered  the  clansman's  sable  scowl. 
A  space  he  paused,  then  sternly  said:  — 
*And  heard'st  thou  why  he  drew  his  blade  ? 
Heard'st  thou  that  shameful  word  and  blow 
Brought  Roderick's  vengeance  on  his  foe  ? 
What  recked  the  chieftain  if  he  stood 
On  Highland  heath,  or  Holyrood  ! 
He  rights  such  wrong  where  it  is  given. 
If  it  were  in  the  court  of  heaven. '>  — 

«  Still  was  it  outrage ;  —  yet,  'tis  true. 
Not  then  claimed  sovereignty  his  due; 
While  Albany,  with  feeble  hand. 
Held  borrowed  truncheon  of  command. 
The  young  King,  mewed  in  Stirling  tower. 
Was  stranger  to  respect  and  power. 
But  then,  thy  chieftain's  robber  life! 
Winning  mean  prey  by  causeless  strife, 
Wrenching  from  ruined  Lowland  swain 
His  herds  and  harvest  reared  in  vain. — 
Methinks  a  soul  like  thine  should  scorn 
The  spoils  from  such  foul  foray  borne." 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  13071 

The  Gael  beheld  him  grim  the  while, 

And  answered  with  disdainful  smile:  — 

«  Saxon,  from  yonder  mountain  high, 

I  marked  thee  send  delighted  eye 

Far  to  the  south  and  east,  where  lay, 

Extended  in  succession  gay, 

Deep  waving  fields  and  pastures  green. 

With  gentle  slopes  and  groves  between. — 

These  fertile  plains,  that  softened  vale. 

Were  once  the  birthright  of  the  Gael: 

The  stranger  came  with  iron  hand. 

And  from  our  fathers  reft  the  land. 

Where  dwell  we  now?     See  rudely  swell 

Crag  over  crag,  and  fell  o'er  fell. 

Ask  we  this  savage  hill  we  tread 

For  fattened  steer  or  household  bread, — 

Ask  we  for  flocks  these  shingles,  dry, — 

And  well  the  mountain  might  reply:  — 

<To  you,  as  to  your  sires  of  yore. 

Belong  the  target  and  claymore! 

I  give  you  shelter  in  my  breast, 

Your  own  good  blades  must  win  the  rest.* 

Pent  in  this  fortress  of  the  North, 

Think'st  thou  we  will  not  sally  forth. 

To  spoil  the  spoiler  as  we  may. 

And  from  the  robber  rend  the  prey? 

Ay,  by  my  soul!  —  While  on  yon  plain 

The  Saxon  rears  one  shock  of  grain; 

While,  of  ten  thousand  herds,  there  strays 

But  one  along  yon  river's  maze, — 

The  Gael,  of  plain  and  river  heir. 

Shall  with  strong  hand  redeem  his  share. 

Where  live  the  mountain  chiefs  who  hold 

That  plundering  Lowland  field  and  fold 

Is  aught  but  retribution  true  ? 

Seek  other  cause  'gainst  Roderick  Dhu.» 

Answered  Fitz-James:  —  "And  if  I  sought, 
Think'st  thou  no  other  could  be  brought? 
What  deem  ye  of  my  path  waylaid  ? 
My  life  given  o'er  to  ambuscade?''  — 

*As  of  a  meed  to  rashness  due: 

Hadst  thou  sent  warning  fair  and  true, — 


13072 


SIR    WALTER   SCOTT 

*I  seek  my  hound,  or  falcon  strayed, 

I  seek  (good  faith)  a  Highland  maid,*  — 

Free  hadst  thou  been  to  come  and  go; 

But  secret  path  marks  secret  foe. 

Nor  yet,  for  this,  even  as  a  spy, 

Hadst  thou,  unheard,  been  doomed  to  die. 

Save  to  fulfill  an  augury.'*  — 

<*Well,  let  it  pass;  nor  will  I  now 

Fresh  cause  of  enmity  avow, 

To  chafe  thy  mood  and  cloud  thy  brow. 

Enough,  I  am  by  promise  tied 

To  match  me  with  this  man  of  pride: 

Twice  have  I  sought  Clan-Alpine's  glen 

In  peace ;  but  when  I  come  agen, 

I  come  with  banner,  brand,  and  bow, 

As  leader  seeks  his  mortal  foe. 

For  love-lorn  swain,  in  lady's  bower, 

Ne'er  panted  for  the  appointed  hour 

As  I  until  before  me  stand 

This  rebel  chieftain  and  his  band!**  — 


"Have,  then,  thy  wish!**  —  He  whistled  shrill. 

And  he  was  answered  from  the  hill; 

Wild  as  the  scream  of  the  curlew, 

From  crag  to  crag  the  signal  flew. 

Instant,  through  copse  and  heath,  arose 

Bonnets,  and  spears,  and  bended  bows; 

On  right,  on  left,  above,  below, 

Sprung  up  at  once  the  lurking  foe; 

From  shingles  gray  their  lances  start. 

The  bracken  bush  sends  forth  the  dart, 

The  rushes  and  the  willow-wand 

Are  bristling  into  axe  and  brand. 

And  every  tuft  of  broom  gives  life 

To  plaided  warrior  armed  for  strife. 

That  whistle  garrisoned  the  glen 

At  once  with  full  five  hundred  men, 

As  if  the  yawning  hill  to  heaven 

A  subterranean  host  had  given. 

Watching  their  leader's  beck  and  will, 

All  silent  there  they  stood,  and  still. 

Like  the  loose  crags,  whose  threatening  mass 

Lay  tottering  o'er  the  hollow  pass. 


SIR   WALTER    SCOTT  13073 

As  if  an  infant's  touch  could  urge 

Their  headlong  passage  down  the  verge, 

With  step  and  weapon  forward  flung, 

Upon  the  mountain-side  they  hung. 

The  mountaineer  cast  glance  of  pride 

Along  Benledi's  living  side, 

Then  fixed  his  eye  and  sable  brow 

Full  on  Fitz-James:   "How  sayest  thou  now? 

These  are  Clan- Alpine's  warriors  true ; 

And,  Saxon, —  I  am  Roderick  Dhu!*> 

Fitz-James  was  brave.  —  Though  to  his  heart 
The  life-blood  thrilled  with  sudden  start, 
He  manned  himself  with  dauntless  air, 
Returned  the  chief  his  haughty  stare, 
His  back  against  a  rock  he  bore. 
And  firmly  placed  his  foot  before:  — 
"  Come  one,  come  all !  this  rock  shall  fly 
From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I.*^ 

Sir  Roderick  marked;  and  in  his  eyes 

Respect  was  mingled  with  surprise. 

And  the  stern  joy  which  warriors  feel 

In  foemen  worthy  of  their  steel. 

Short  space  he  stood;  —  then  waved  his  hand: 

Down  sunk  the  disappearing  band; 

Each  warrior  vanished  where  he  stood. 

In  broom  or  bracken,  heath  or  wood ; 

Sunk  brand,  and  spear,  and  bended  bow. 

In  osiers  pale  and  copses  low: 

It  seemed  as  if  their  mother  Earth 

Had  swallowed  up  her  warlike  birth. 

The  wind's  last  breath  had  tossed  in  air, 

Pennon,  and  plaid,  and  plumage  fair, — 

The  next  but  swept  a  lone  hillside. 

Where  heath  and  fern  were  waving  wide. 

The  sun's  last  glance  was  glinted  back 

From  spear  and  glaive,  from  targe  and  jack,— 

The  next,  all  unreflected,  shone 

On  bracken  green  and  cold  gray  stone. 


13074  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


SONG:    JOCK  O'   HAZELDEAN 

«  "1  T  7"HY  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie? 
YY        Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide? 
I'll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son. 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride. 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen^^  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa* 
For  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 

"Now  let  this  willfu'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale: 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington, 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen'*  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 

<<A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair; 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk. 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair: 
And  you,  the  foremost  o'  them  a', 

Shall  ride  our  forest  queen  >'  — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  was  decked  at  morning-tide, 

The  tapers  glimmered  fair; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride. 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there. 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha'— 

The  ladie  was  not  seen! 
She's  o'er  the  Border,  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT  1307S 

HIGHLAND   SONG:    PIBROCH   OF   DONUIL  DHU 

PIBROCH  of  Donuil  Dhu, 
Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 
Summon  Clan-Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away, 

Hark  to  the  summons! 
Come  in  your  war  array, 
Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky, — 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come  every  hill  plaid  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one, 
Come  every  steel  blade  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd. 

The  flock  without  shelter; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 

The  bride  at  the  altar; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer. 

Leave  nets  and  barges:  , 

Come  with  your  fighting-gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come  when 

Forests  are  rended, 
Come  as  the  waves  come  when 

Navies  are  stranded: 
Faster  come,  faster  come. 

Faster  and  faster, 
,  Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come; 

See  how  they  gather! 
"Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume. 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset? 


13076 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


NORA'S   VOW 

HEAR  what  Highland  Nora  said:  — 
«  The  Earlie's  son  I  will  not  wed. 
Should  all  the  race  of  nature  die. 
And  none  be  left  but  he  and  I. 
For  all  the  gold,  for  all  the  gear, 
And  all  the  lands  both  far  and  near. 
That  ever  valor  lost  or  won, 
I  would  not  wed  the  Earlie's  son.® 

«A  maiden's  vows,'*  old  Galium  spoke: 
"Are  lightly  made  and  lightly  broke; 
The  heather  on  the  mountain's  height 
Begins  to  bloom  in  purple  light; 
The  frost-wind  soon  shall  sweep  away 
That  lustre  deep  from  glen  and  brae: 
Yet  Nora,  ere  its  bloom  be  gone. 
May  blithely  wed  the  Earlie's  son.» 

«The  swan,*'  she  said,  "the  lake's  clear  breast 
May  barter  for  the  eagle's  nest; 
The  Awe's  fierce  stream  may  backward  turn, 
Ben-Cruaichan  fall  and  crush  Kilchurn; 
Our  kilted  clans,  when  blood  is  high, 
Before  their  foes  may  turn  and  fly: 
But  I,  were  all  these  marvels  done, 
"Would  never  wed  the  Earlie's  son.» 

Still  in  the  water-lily's  shade 

Her  wonted  nest  the  wild-swan  made; 

Ben-Cruaichan  stands  as  fast  as  ever. 

Still  downward  foams  the  Awe's  fierce  river; 

To  shun  the  clash  of  foeman's  steel. 

No  Highland  brogue  has  turned  the  heel: 

But  Nora's  heart  is  lost  and  Avon, — 

She's  wedded  to  the  Earlie's  son! 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  ^i^ll 

THE   BALLAD   OF   <THE   RED   HARLAW> 
In  <The  Antiquary  > 


T 


HE  herring  loves  the  merry  moonlight, 
The  mackerel  loves  the  wind, 

But  the  oyster  loves  the  dredging-sang, 
For  they  come  of  a  gentle  kind. 


Now  hand  your  tongue,  baith  wife  and  carle, 

And  listen  great  and  sma', 
And  I  will  sing  of  Glenallan's  Earl 

That  fought  on  the  red  Harlaw. 

The  cronach's  cried  on  Bennachie, 

And  doun  the  Don  and  a'. 
And  hieland  and  lawland  may  mournfu'  be 

For  the  sair  field  of  Harlaw. 

They  saddled  a  hundred  milk-white  steeds, 
They  hae  bridled  a  hundred  black, 

With  a  chafron  of  steel  on  each  horse's  head, 
And  a  good  knight  upon  his  back. 

They  hadna  ridden  a  mile,  a  mile, 

A  mile  but  barely  ten, 
When  Donald  came  branking  down  the  brae 

Wi'  twenty  thousand  men. 

Their  tartans  they  were  waving  wide. 
Their  glaives  were  glancing  clear. 

The  pibrochs  rung  frae  side  to  side. 
Would  deafen  ye  to  hear. 

The  great  Earl  in  his  stirrup  stood. 

That  Highland  host  to  see. 
<*Now  here  a  knight  that's  stout  and  good 

May  prove  a  jeopardie:   • 

«What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  squire  so  gay. 

That  rides  beside  my  reyne, — 
Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl  the  day. 

And  I  were  Roland  Cheyne  ? 

«To  turn  the  rein  were  sin  and  shame. 
To  fight  were  wondrous  peril, — 

What  would  ye  do  now,  Roland  Cheyne, 
Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl!"  — 


13078  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

«Were  I  Glenallan's  Earl  this  tide, 
And  ye  were  Roland  Cheyne, 

The  spur  should  be  in  my  horse's  side. 
And  the  bridle  upon  his  mane. 

<*If  they  hae  twenty  thousand  blades, 
And  we  twice  ten  times  ten, 

Yet  they  hae  but  their  tartan  plaids. 
And  we  are  mail-clad  men. 

<<My  horse  shall  ride  through  ranks  sae  rude. 
As  through  the  moorland  fern, — 

Then  ne'er  let  the  gentle  Norman  blude 
Grow  cauld  for  Highland  kerne." 


He  turned  him  right  and  round  again, 
Said,  Scorn  na  at  my  mither; 

Light  loves  I  may  get  mony  a  ane. 
But  minnie  ne'er  anither. 


SONG:    BRIGNALL  BANKS 
From  <Rokeby> 

OH,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair. 
And  Greta  woods  are  green. 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton  Hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily:  — 
*0h,  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  are  green : 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there. 
Than  reign  our  English  queen. '* — ■ 

"If,  maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me. 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we. 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down. 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read. 

As  read  full  well  you  may. 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed. 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May."  — 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  13079 

Yet  sung  she,  «Brignall  banks  are  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  are  green; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there, 

Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

«I  read  you,  by  your  bugle-horn. 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  Ranger  sworn, 

To  keep  the  king's  greenwood. » — 
«A  Ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night.  » — 
Yet  sung  she, " «  Brignall  banks  are  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay: 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there, 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May! 

«With  burnished  brand  and  musketoon. 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  Dragoon, 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum.»  — 
«I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum. 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum. 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 
And  oh!  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare 

"Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May! 

« Maiden!   a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'll  die : 
The  fiend,  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead. 

Were  better  mate  than  I! 
And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough. 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget. 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now. 
Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green. 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen.  >* 


13080  SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 


BONNY   DUNDEE 

TO  THE  Lords  of  Convention  'twas  Claver'se  who  spoke, — 
^*Ere  the  King's  crown  shall   fall   there   are   crowns  to  be 
broke ; 
So  let  each  Cavalier  who  loves  honor  and  me 
Come  follow  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 

Cfwrus :  —  Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 

Come  saddle  your  horses,  and  call  up  your  men; 
Come  open  the  West  Port,  and  let  me  gang  free, 
And  it's  room  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee!* 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the  street: 

The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the  drums  they  are  beat; 

But  the  Provost,  douce  man,  said,  *^Just  e'en  let  him  be, — 

The  gude  town  is  weel  quit  of  that  Deil  of  Dundee."       {Chorus. 

As  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of  the  Bow, 

Ilk  carline  was  flyting  and  shaking  her  pow; 

But  the  young  plants  of  grace  they  looked  couthie  and  slee, 

Thinking,   Luck  to  thy  bonnet,  thou  Bonny  Dundee!  [Chorus. 

With  sour-featured  Whigs  the  Grass-market*  was  crammed. 

As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be  hanged: 

There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was  fear  in  each  e'e. 

As  they  watched  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny  Dundee.  [Chorus. 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits  and  had  spears. 

And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  Cavaliers; 

But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads,  and  the  causeway  was  free, 

At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee.  [Chorus. 

He  spurred  to  the  foot  of  the  proud  Castle  rock. 

And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly  spoke :  — 

*  Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows  speak  twa  words  or  three, 

For  the  love  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee."  [Chorus. 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way  he  goes:  — 

«  Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of  Montrose! 

Your  Grace  in  short  space  shall  hear  tidings  of  me, 

Or  that  low  lies  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee.  [Chorus. 

<<  There  are  hills  beyond  Pentland,  and  lands  beyond  Forth; 
If  there's  lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there's  chiefs  in  the  North; 

*The  place  of  public  execution. 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT  13081 

There  are  wild  Duniewassals  three  thousand  times  three, 

Will  cry  hoigh!  for  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee.  [Chorus. 

«  There's  brass  on  the  target  of  barkened  bull-hide; 

There's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles  beside: 

The  brass  shall  be  burnished,  the  steel  shall  flash  free. 

At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee.  [Chorus. 

«Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the  rocks,— 

Ere  I  own  an  usurper,  I'll  couch  with  the  fox; 

And  tremble,  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst  of  your  glee,— 

You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet  and  me!»  [Chorus. 

He  waved  his  proud  hand,  and  the  trumpets  were  blown, 

The  kettle-drums  clashed,  and  the  horsemen  rode  on; 

Till  on  Ravelston's  cliffs,  and  on  Clermiston's  lea, 

Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  Bonny  Dundee.  [Chorus. 


FLORA  MAC-IVOR'S  SONG 
From  <  Waverley  > 

THERE  is  mist  on  the  mountain,  and  night  on  the  vale, 
But  more  dark  is  the  sleep  of  the  sons  of  the  Gael. 
A  stranger  commanded, —  it  sunk  on  the  land. 
It  has  frozen  each  heart  and  benumbed  every  hand! 

The  dirk  and  the  target  lie  sordid  with  dust. 
The  bloodless  claymore  is  but  reddened  with  rust; 
On  the  hill  or  the  glen  if  a  gun  should  appear, 
It  is  only  to  war  with  the  heath-cock  or  deer. 

The  deeds  of  our  sires  if  our  bards  should  rehearse. 
Let  a  blush  or  a  blow  be  the  meed  of  their  verse! 
Be  mute  every  string,  and  be  hushed  every  tone, 
That  shall  bid  us  remember  the  fame  that  is  flown. 

But  the  dark  hours  of  night  and  of  slumber  are  past, 
The  morn  on  our  mountains  is  dawning  at  last! 
Glenaladale's  peaks  are  illumed  with  the  rays. 
And  the  streams  of  Glenfinnan  leap  bright  in  the  blaze. 

O  high-minded  Moray!  the  exiled,  the  dear! 
In  the  blush  of  the  dawning  the  Standard  uprear! 
Wide,  wide  on  the  winds  of  the  north  let  it  fly, 
Like  the  sun's  latest  flash  when  the  tempest  is  nigh! 


13082 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT 

Ye  sons  of  the  strong,  when  that  dawning  shall  break, 
Need  the  harp  of  the  aged  remind  you  to  wake  ? 
That  dawn  never  beamed  on  your  forefathers'  eye 
But  it  roused  each  high  chieftain  to  vanquish  or  die. 

O  sprung  from  the  kings  who  in  Islay  kept  state, 
Proud  chiefs  of  Clan-Ranald,  Glengarry,  and  Sleat! 
Combine  like  three  streams  from  one  mountain  of  snow. 
And  resistless  in  union  rush  down  on  the  foe. 

True  son  of  Sir  Evan,  undaunted  Lochiel, 
Place  thy  targe  on  thy  shoulder  and  burnish  thy  steel! 
Rough  Keppoch,  give  breath  to  thy  bugle's  bold  swell, 
Till  far  Coryarrick  resound  to  the  knell! 

Stern  son  of  Lord  Kenneth,  high  chief  of  Kintail, 
Let  the  stag  in  thy  standard  bound  wild  in  the  gale! 
May  the  race  of  Clan-Gillian,  the  fearless  and  free. 
Remember  Glenlivat,  Harlaw,  and  Dundee! 

Let  the  clan  of  Gray  Fingon,  whose  offspring  has  given 
Such  heroes  to  earth,  and  such  martyrs  to  heaven, 
Unite  with  the  race  of  renowned  Rorri  More, 
To  launch  the  long  galley  and  stretch  to  the  oar! 

How  Mac-Shimei  will  joy  when  their  chief  shall  display 
The  yew-crested  bonnet  o'er  tresses  of  gray! 
How  the  race  of  wronged  Alpine  and  murdered  Glencoe 
Shall  shout  for  revenge  when  they  pour  on  the  foe! 

Ye  sons  of  brown  Dermid,  who  slew  the  wild  boar, 
Resume  the  pure  faith  of  the  great  Callum-More! 
Mac-Niel  of  the  Islands,  and  Moy  of  the  Lake, 
For  honor,  for  freedom,  for  vengeance  awake! 

Awake  on  your  hills,  on  your  islands  awake. 

Brave  sons  of  the  mountain,  the  frith,  and  the  lake! 

'Tis  the  bugle  —  but  not  for  the  chase  is  the  call; 

'Tis  the  pibroch's  shrill  summons  —  but  not  to  the  hall. 

'Tis  the  summons  of  heroes  for  conquest  or  death. 
When  the  banners  are  blazing  on  mountain  and  heatiii 
They  call  to  the  dirk,  the  claymore,  and  the  targe. 
To  the  march  and  the  muster,  the  line  and  the  charge. 

Be  the  brand  of  each  chieftain  like  Fin's  in  his  ire! 
May  the  blood  through  his  veins  flow  like  currents  of  fire? 
Burst  the  base  foreign  yoke  as  your  sires  did  of  yore' 
Or  die,  like  your  sires,  and  endure  it  no  more' 


13083 


AUGUSTIN   EUGENE  SCRIBE 

(1791-1861) 


)FTKR  the  spirited  comedy  of  Beaumarchais  came  a  lull  in 
dramatic  production  in  France.  The  public  yawned  over 
long  dull  plays,  or  applauded  mediocre  work  for  its  cheap 
reflection  of  popular  sentiment.  Then  Eugene  Scribe  came  to  the 
rescue,  having  gradually  found  out  what  the  public  taste  craved.  He 
had  learned  this  through  perhaps  a  dozen  failures,  when  his  shrewd 
instinct  guided  him  to  seize  upon  vaudeville,  and  dignify  it  to  the 
rank  of  laugh-provoking  comedy.  His  plot, 
as  ingeniously  contrived  as  a  Chinese  puz- 
zle, was  a  frame  upon  which  he  hung  clever 
dialogue,  catchy  songs,  puns,  popular  allus- 
ions, and   manifold  witticisms. 

His  first  successful  vaudeville,  <  Une  Nuit 
du  Garde  National,*  in  one  act,  written  in 
collaboration  with  Poirson,  another  young 
author,  was  played  at  the  Gymnase  in  18 16, 
and  was  the  beginning  of  Scribe's  astonish- 
ing popularity. 

For  about  forty  years  he  was  the  master 
playwright  of  France.  He  grew  more  and 
more  cunning  in  estimating  his  audience, 
flattering  their   foibles,   and   reflecting   con-  , 

temporary  interests.  He  was  strictly  unmoral,  and  offered  no  prob- 
lems. His  light  frothy  humor  required  no  mental  effort;  he  diverted 
without  fatiguing.  So  Paris  loved  Scribe,  paid  him  a  fortime,  made 
him  a  great  social  as  well  as  literary  light,  and  in  1836  admitted  him 
to  the  Academy.  From  his  father,  a  prosperous  silk  merchant  in 
Paris,  where  he  himself  was  born  in  1791,  he  inherited  decided  busi- 
ness talent.  Perhaps  no  author  has  ever  received  fuller  measure  of 
pecuniary  success. 

Wonderful  tales  are  told  of  his  intuitive  comprehension  of  dramatic 
possibilities.  One  day  *  La  Chanoinesse,*  a  dull  five-act  tragedy,  was 
read  to  him.  Before  the  end  had  been  reached,  his  mind  had  the 
plot  transformed  into  a  witty  one-act  burlesque.  He  was  less  invent- 
ive than  skillful  at  adaptation,  so  he  often  borrowed  ideas  from 
more  fertile  and  less  executive  brains.     For  these,  Scribe,  always  the 


Eugene  Scribe 


g  AUGUSTIN  EUGfiNE  SCRIBE 

honorable  business  man,  gave  due  credit.  So  it  is  said  that  many  a 
poverty-stricken  writer  was  surprised  to  be  claimed  as  collaborator  by 
the  great  M.  Scribe,  and  to  receive  generous  payment  for  ideas  which 
in  their  changed  form  he  could  hardly  recognize  as  his  own. 

After  1840  Scribe  partially  deserted  the  clever  buffoonery  of  his 
vaudeville,  and  attempted  serious  five-act  dramas.  Of  these,  two  of 
the  best  —  ^Adrienne  Lecouvreur^  and  <  La  Bataille  des  Dames*  (The 
Ladies'  Battle)  —  were  written  with  Legouve;  and  in  translation  are 
familiar  to  American  playgoers. 

Scribe  turned  his  hand  to  most  kinds  of  composition.  He  wrote 
several  volumes  of  .charming  tales.  He  was  especially  skillful  in  the 
composition  of  librettos  for  the  operas  of  Verdi,  Auber,  Meyerbeer, 
and  other  composers.  He  was  remarkably  prolific,  and  about  four 
hundred  pieces  are  included  in  the  published  list  of  his  works;  from 
which,  however,  many  waifs  and  strays  of  his  talent  are  omitted. 

Although  most  of  his  plays,  once  so  cordially  liked,  are  now  obso- 
lete. Scribe  has  a  lasting  claim  to  remembrance  in  that  his  mastery 
of  stage  technique  guided  greater  dramatists  than  himself  to  more 
effective  expression.  Perhaps  no  one  ever  lived  with  a  stronger 
sense  of  scenic  requirements.  His  plays  could  not  drag.  Although 
often  superficial  in  his  effort  to  sketch  lightly  contemporary  life,  and 
in  his  preoccupation  with  every-day  general  human  interests,  Scribe 
anticipated  the  drama  of  realism. 


MERLIN'S   PET   FAIRY 

ONE  night,  Merlin,  sad  and  dreamy,  was  gazing  over  the  im- 
mensity of  heaven.  He  thought  he  heard  a  light  sound 
below  him.  A  frightful  tempest  was  upheaving  the  ocean. 
The  waves,  piled  mountain  high,  scattered  salt  water  to  the  skies. 
Merlin  went  higher  to  avoid  a  wetting;  and  by  the  light  of  the 
stars  he  saw,  like  an  imperceptible  point  on  the  summit  of  the 
waves,  a  vessel  about  to  sink.  There  was  service  to  render,  suf- 
fering to  relieve.  Merlin  forgot  his  dreams  and  darted  forth, 
but  too  late.  Pitiless  fate  anticipated  him;  and  the  ship,  dashed 
against  the  cliffs,  was  flying  in  a  thousand  pieces. 

All  the  passengers  had  perished  except  one  woman,  who  was 
still  struggling.  She  held  a  little  daughter  in  her  arms  whom 
she  tried  to  save. 

**  Protecting  angels,'*  she  cried,  "save  her!    watch  over  her!" 

When  her  strength  deserted  her  she  disappeared,  just  as  Mer- 

\in  descended  from   the   clouds   and   touched    the   surface   of  the 


AUGUSTIN   EUGENE   SCRIBE  13085 

water.      He  heard   the  poor  mother's  last  words,  caught  up  her 
child,  and  bore  it  back  to  the  skies. 

He  warmed  the  little  creature's  chilled  limbs  in  his  hands. 
Was  she  still  breathing  ?  In  doubt,  he  recalled  her  to  Hfe  or  gave 
her  a  new  one  by  means  of  his  magic  power,  with  a  ray  of  dawn 
and  a  drop  of  dew.  Then  Merlin  gazed  at  the  poor  child  with 
delighted  eyes 

"You  shall  be  a  fairy,**  he  said  to  her.  "You  shall  be  my 
pet  fairy.  The  misfortune  and  death  which  presided  over  your 
birth  can  never  thenceforth  touch  you.* 

The  baby  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled  at  him,  and  Merlin 
carried  his  treasure  to  his  crystal  and  flowery  palace  in  the 
clouds. 

The  young  fairy  was  charming,  and  Merlin  wished  to  endow 
her  with  all  gifts,  all  talents,  all  virtues.  He  gave  her  the  heart 
which  loves  and  is  loved;  the  mind  which  pleases  and  amuses 
others,  and  the  grace  which  always  charms. 

He  gave  her  his  own  power  (without  making  her  his  equal, 
however),  with  only  one  condition:  that  she  should  love  him, 
and  prefer  him  to  all  the  sylphs  and  heavenly  spirits,  however 
beautiful,  who  shone  in  Ginnistan.  Mighty  Alaciel,  the  supreme 
genie  presiding  over  this  empire,  loved  the  enchanter  Merlin,  and 
consented  to  all  his  desires.  All  that  he  asked  for  the  young 
fairy  was  granted  and  immutably  ratified  by  destiny. 

Never  had  Merlin  been  more  happy  than  while  pretty  Vivian 
was  growing  up  under  his  eyes.  That  was  the  name  he  had 
given  her,  the  name  which  was  to  make  her  immortal;  for  never 
has  love  been  more  celebrated  than  that  of  the  enchanter  Mer- 
lin for  the  fairy  Vivian.  All  legends  tell  of  it,  all  chronicles 
attest  it,  and  traces  of  it  are  still  preserved  on  the  walls  of  old 
monuments. 

Merlin  had  no  other  delight  than  in  Vivian;  and  she  knew  no 
joy  apart  from  her  benefactor.  Although  still  very  young,  the 
wit  and  intelligence  with  which  she  was  endowed  soon  taught 
her  to  appreciate  his  worth  and  all  that  she  owed  to  him.  Full 
of  gratitude  for  his  goodness  and  admiration  for  his  talents,  she 
listened  to  his  lessons  with  an  avidity  and  pleasure  which  flat- 
tered the  scholar's  self-love;  while,  gracious  and  attentive,  her 
cares  for  him  delighted  the  old  man's  heart. 

So  she  could  not  be  separated  from  him,  but  accompanied 
him   in   all  his  journeys   and   investigations,    and   shared   all   his 


13086 


AUGUSTIN   EUGENE   SCRIBE 


labors,  which  were  pleasures  for  her.  She  loved  to  soar  through 
space  with  him,  admiring  far  off  the  stars,  whose  revolutions  and 
movements  in  heaven  he  explained  to  her;  then  redescending 
toward  earth,  both  invisible,  they  would  hover  over  castles  and 
cottages,  inspiring  noble  lords  with  kind  thoughts  for  their  vas- 
sals, and  bearing  hope  and  consolation  to  the  vassals.  In  sleep 
they  showed  the  poor  mother  her  absent  son;  to  the  young  girl 
her  lover;  to  all  they  sent  golden  dreams  which  later  were  real- 
ized. Do  you  see  that  pilgrim  worn  out  with  heat  and  fatigue 
sleeping  under  an  elm  on  the  wayside  ?  He  wakes  consumed  with 
hunger  and  burning  thirst,  and  sees  over  his  head  a  bough  loaded 
with  superb  pears.  O  surprise!  Where  did  this  tree  which  he 
had  not  noticed  before,  come  from  ?  Or  rather,  what  changed 
the  sterile  young  elm  into  a  fruit-tree  during  his  sleep  ?  It  was 
Vivian ! 

And  that  young  girl,  how  unhappy  she  is!  Sitting  on  the 
bank  of  a  stream,  she  weeps  and  mourns!  She  had  a  gold  cross, 
her  only  ornament,  her  riches!  Taking  it  off  to  clean  it  or  look 
at  it,  she  has  let  it  fall  to  the  bottom  of  the  deep  water.  Lost! 
lost  forever!  And  just  then  she  feels  around  her  neck  a  wet 
ribbon,  which  an  invisible  hand  has  replaced;  and  at  the  end  of 
the  ribbon  shines  the  gold  cross,  which  she  thought  never  to  see 
again.  The  little  fairy  has  plunged  under  the  waves  and  brought 
it  back. 

Another  time  a  poor  tenant,  torn  from  his  family,  is  being 
dragged  to  prison  because  he  owes  a  pitiless  master  ten  crowns 
rent,  which  he  has  not  been  able  to  pay!  And  suddenly  his 
sobbing  wife,  who  accompanies  him,  finds  in  her  apron  pocket 
twenty  bright  gold  crowns  which  she  does  not  remember  ever 
putting  there!  Who  slipped  them  there?  Vivian's  little  hand! 
Oh,  kind  pleasant  fairy,  delighting  in  the  good  she  does  —  and 
Merlin  still  happier  at  seeing  her  do  it! 

Months  and  years  succeeded  each  other.  Fairies  grow  quickly. 
Their  beauty  need  not  fear  to  ripen,  as  it  is  to  endure  always' 
Nothing  more  charming  than  Vivian  ever  shone  in  Ginnistan. 
Her  pretty  blonde  hair,  her  blue  eyes  reflecting  the  sky,  her 
dainty  figure,  light  and  airy,  her  quick  smile,  set  her  above  other 
fairies. 

As  to  character,  hers  was  charming  and  impossible  to  define. 
She  was  both  reasonable  and  frivolous,  equally  serious  over  feasts 
and    toilets,    good    works    and   pretty    dresses;    knowing    a   great 


AUGUSTIN  EUGfiNE   SCRIBE  X3087 

deal,  and  as  amusing  as  if  she  knew  nothing.  Coquettish  in 
mind  but  not  in  heart,  gracious  and  good,  laughing  and  mis- 
chievous, above  all  kind  and  beloved  by  every  one, —  such  was 
Vivian.  With  a  word  or  a  smile  she  triumphed  over  all  resist- 
ance, overturned  all  obstacles;  and  when  her  pretty  little  hand 
caressed  Merlin's  white  beard,  the  great  enchanter  could  refuse 
her  nothing.  Far  more,  he  exercised  all  his  art  to  discover  her 
tastes  and  anticipate  her  wishes!  To  him  science  had  no  longer 
any  end  but  that  of  creating  pleasures  for  Vivian. 

Thus,  anticipating  by  magic  the  genius  of  future  ages,  he 
devised  wonders  for  her  which  we  think  we  have  discovered  since 
then,  but  which  we  have  only  refound.  Our  new  inventions  are 
only  copies,  more  or  less  able,  of  all  Merlin's  secrets.  Among 
them  were  prodigies  compared  with  which  those  of  steam  are 
only  child's  play, —  the  art  of  traversing  air  and  directing  one's 
course  at  will  on  a  cloud  or  winged  dragon,  and  a  thousand 
other  sorceries  which  we  do  not  know  yet. 

Not  content  with  creating  palaces  and  aerial  gardens  for  Viv-  . 
ian,  to  please  her  he  descended  to  the  least  details.  Our  pret- 
tiest—  I  mean  oddest  —  fashions,  our  most  coquettish  jewels,  our 
most  precious  fabrics,  were  then  invented  for  her.  Her  crystal 
palace  was  lighted  by  a  thousand  magical  fires,  which  since  we 
have  learned  to  call  gas  or  electric  light. 

Within  this  palace  he  had  raised  a  fairy  temple,  which  many 
centuries  later  we  thought  to  invent  under  the  name  of  Opera! 
In  rooms  enriched  with  gold  and  velvet,  Vivian  and  the  court  of 
Ginnistan  gave  themselves  to  noble  pleasures.  Dancing  and 
music  exerted  all  their  allurements.  There  were  delicious  songs 
still  unknown  to  earth,  which  later  Merlin  revealed  to  Gluck,  Mo- 
zart, Rossini,  Auber,  Meyerbeer,  unless  indeed  these  stole  them 
for  themselves  from  heaven. 

Thus  Merlin  watched  over  the  amusements  of  his  young  fairy, 
and  still  more  over  the  happiness  of  her  every  minute;  for  he 
had  taught  her  never  to  be  idle.  Under  her  skillful  fingers  the 
brush  or  the  needle  created  little  masterpieces,  so  perfect  and 
elegant  that  they  gave  rise  to  the  expression  "  to  work  like  the 
fairies  " ! 

And  note  that  before  Vivian,  fairies  did  nothing.  Their  only 
diversion  was  to  busy  themselves  with  love  affairs  or  intrigues 
on  earth.  Their  home  was  most  monotonous,  and  they  did  not 
know  what  to  do   with   themselves  in   heaven.     There,  as  in  all 


13088 


AUGUSTIN  EUGENE   SCRIBE 


courts  of  any  rank,  the  receptions  and  companies  almost  killed 
one  with  their  dullness.  Drawn  up  in  a  circle  on  feast  days, 
the  fairies  gazed  upon  each  other  in  fixed  beauty,  which  they 
did  not  have  even  the  fear  of  losing  or  seeing  change. 

As  to  the  sylphs  and  genii  who  stood  behind  them,  they  too 
yawned  in  their  immortality.  Judge  then  how  they  appreciated 
the  presentation  to  court  of  a  witty,  amiable,  vivacious  fairy. 
She  turned  all  heads,  and  drew  all  attention.  They  knew  the 
distractions  of  love;  and  the  genii  thought  it  v/ould  be  delightful 
to  rob  the  old  enchanter  of  the  charming  young  girl  he  was 
guarding. 

One  morning  in  Merlin's  absence,  Vivian  found  a  satiny  little 
note  on  her  dressing-table,  containing  a  declaration  of  love, 
signed  Zelindor.  Zelindor  was  the  handsomest  and  most  foppish 
of  all  the  genii.  In  manner  and  bearing,  in  his  least  actions, 
he  concerned  himself  with  only  one  thing, —  to  know  if  he  was 
admired;  and  his  eyes,  which  were  superb,  seemed  to  have  been 
given  him  only  to  see  whether  or  not  he  was  being  noticed. 

That  evening  Vivian  found  in  her  work-basket  a  dozen  other 
little  satiny  papers. 

As  soon  as  Merlin  returned,  she  carried  him  the  whole  col- 
lection.    The  indignant  enchanter  wanted  to  rage. 

*^  Read  them  first, "  she  said. 

He  read,  and  then  tremblingly  asked  what  she  thought  of  all 
these  demonstrations  of  affection. 

**  I  think, "  she  answered,  ^'  that  they  are  very  badly  written.  * 

**  They  say  nothing  to  your  heart  ?  * 

«  Nothing. » 

Merlin  wore  two  rings  on  his  left  hand.  One  was  an  emer- 
ald: when  he  took  it  off  his  finger  and  held  it  to  his  mouth,  he 
ceased  to  be  invisible,  and  appeared  under  his  true  form  to  mor- 
tal eyes.  The  other,  more  useful  and  more  to  be  feared,  was  of 
a  single  ruby.  With  this  ring  he  could  read  hearts,  and  see 
what  every  one  was  thinking. 

He  seized  this  ring,  regarded  it  attentively,  and  was  soon 
convinced  that  Vivian  had  spoken  the  truth. 

"  Yes !  yes !  *^  he  cried.  ^*  You  are  indifferent  to  Zelindor  and 
all  the  other  sylphs,  and  prefer  me.** 

*  Ah !  that's  unkind !  **  cried  Vivian  interrupting  him,  **  very 
unkind !  ** 

"  To  convince  myself  of  your  friendship  ?  ** 


AUGUSTIN   EUGfiNE   SCRIBE  13089 

"No!  But  to  surprise  the  secrets  that  I  want  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  telling  you.** 

«Ah!  you  are  charming!"  cried  Merlin,  transported  with  joy. 
*  So  you  love  me,  then  ?  " 

<< Aren't  you  my  friend,  my  benefactor,  my  father,  to  whom  I 
owe  everything  ?  ** 

«  Yes,~it  is  true,**  said  the  enchanter,  only  half  satisfied:  "and 
I  love  you  too,  Vivian,  ardently,  passionately;  and  that  is  the 
way  I  want  you  to  love  me." 

"I  don't  understand,**  said  Vivian.  "I  prefer  you  to  all 
whom  I  see  or  hear, —  to  all  who  are  about  us." 

"Yes,**  said  Merlin  to  himself,  "that  is  just  what  I  once 
asked  from  Alaciel,  and  which  he  has  granted.  But,**  he  said, 
speaking  out  loud  without  meaning  to  do  so,  "  I  made  a  great 
mistake  in  not  asking  more." 

"And  what  more  do  you  want?"  she  asked  with  an  affection- 
ate smile. 

"  When  you  are  with  me,  does  your  heart  beat  more  quickly  ?  ** 

"No,**  answered  Vivian  in  a  pure,  candid  voice. 

"And  yet  you  love  me  a  little  ? " 

"Better  than  all  the  world." 

"And  you  consent,  dear  child,  to  be  mine  ?  ** 

«  Yes. " 

Merlin  kissed  the  fresh  rosy  cheek  of  the  young  fairy,  and 
trembling  with  emotion,  let  himself  fall  into  a  chair,  gazing  after 
Vivian  as  she  bounded  away  and  disappeared  behind  the  clumps 
of  lilacs. 


THE   PRICE  OF   LIFE 

JOSEPH,  opening  the  parlor  door,  came  to  tell  us  the  post-chaise 
was  ready.     My  mother  and  sister  threw  themselves  in  my 
arms. 
"It  is  not  too  late,"  they  said.     "Give  up  this  journey.     Stay 
with  us.** 

"  Mother,  I  am  a  gentleman ;  I  am  twenty  years  old ;  I  must 
have  a  name  in  the  country.  I  must  make  my  way,  either  in 
the  army  or  at  court." 

"And  when  you  are  gone,  what  will  become  of  me,  Bernard  ? " 
"You  will  be  happy  and  proud  to  hear  of  your  son's  success,** 


AUGUSTIN  EUG]&NE  SCRIBE 

*And  if  you  are  killed  in  some  battle  ? '' 

« What  matters  it  ?  What  is  life  ?  Does  a  man  think  of 
that?  When  a  man  is  twenty  and  a  gentleman,  he  thinks  only 
of  glory.  In  a  few  years,  mother,  I'll  come  back  a  colonel,  or 
marshal,  or  else  with  a  fine  office  at  Versailles.*^ 

"^^Ah  well!   what  will  come  of  it  if  you  do?** 

« I  shall  be  respected  and  thought  much  of.** 

«  What  then  ?  » 

<*Then  every  one  will  salute  me.'* 

«And  then  ?  ** 

<*  Then  I  will  wed  my  cousin  Henrietta,  and  settle  my  young 
sisters  in  marriage,  and  we  will  all  live  with  you,  tranquil  and 
happy  in  my  Bretagne  domain.** 

"And  why  can't  you  begin  to-day  ?  Didn't  your  father  leave 
us  the  finest  fortune  in  the  country  ?  Is  there  a  richer  domain 
for  ten  leagues  around,  or  a  finer  castle  than  Roche- Bernard  ? 
Do  not  your  vassals  respect  you  ?  As  you  go  through  the  village, 
does  any  one  fail  to  take  oif  his  hat  ?  Don't  leave  us,  my  son ! 
Sta)''  with  your  friends,  your  sisters,  and  your  old  mother  who 
may  not  be  here  when  you  come  back.  Don't  squander  in  vain- 
glory, or  shorten  by  all  kinds  of  cares  and  torments,  the  days  that 
roll  so  fast  anyway.  Life  is  so  sweet,  my  boy,  and  the  sun  of 
Bretagne  so  glorious !  ** 

While  speaking,  she  pointed  through  the  windows  at  the 
pretty  paths  of  my  park,  the  old  chestnut-trees  in  blossom,  the 
lilacs  and  honeysuckles  which  perfumed  the  air.  In  the  ante- 
chamber the  gardener  and  all  his  family  had  gathered  sad  and 
silent,  seeming  to  express  —  "  Don't  go,  young  master,  don't  go.  ** 
Hortense,  my  elder  sister,  pressed  roe  in  her  arms;  and  Amelie, 
my  little  sister,  who  was  looking  at  the  pictures  in  a  volume  of 
La  Fontaine,  offered  me  the  book. 

**  Read,  read,  brother,**  she  said  weeping. 

It  was  the  fable  of  the  two  pigeons!  I  rose  brusquely;  I 
pushed  them  all   away. 

"  I  am  twenty,  and  a  gentleman :  I  must  have  honor  and 
fame.     Let  me  go.** 

And  I  hurried  into  the  court.  I  was  stepping  into  the  post- 
chaise  when  a  woman  appeared  on  the  steps.  It  was  Henrietta. 
She  did  not  weep,  she  did  not  utter  a  word;  but,  pale  and 
trembling,   she   could    scarcely    support   herself.     With   the    white 


AUGUSTIN  EUGENE   SCRIBE  13091 

handkerchiet  in  her  hand  she  waved  me  a  last  good-by,  then 
fell  unconscious.  I  rushed  to  her,  lifted  her,  pressed  her  in  my 
arms,  swore  to  love  her  always;  and  as  she  came  to  herself,  leav- 
ing her  to  the  care  of  my  mother  and  sisters,  I  ran  to  my  car- 
riage without  stopping  or  turning  my  head.  If  I  had  looked  at 
Henrietta  I  could  not  have  gone. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  post-chaise  was  rolling  along  the  thor- 
oughfare. For  a  long  time  I  thought  of  nothing  but  my  sisters, 
my  mother,  and  Henrietta,  and  all  the  happiness  I  was  leaving 
behind  me.  But  as  the  towers  of  Roche-Bernard  gradually  van- 
ished, these  ideas  faded;  and  soon  dreams  of  glory  and  ambition 
took  possession  of  my  mind.  What  projects,  what  castles  in 
Spain,  what  fine  actions,  I  created  for  myself  in  my  post-chaise! 
Riches,  honors,  dignities,  all  kinds  of  success, —  I  denied  myself 
nothing;  I  merited  and  received  everything;  finally,  rising  in 
rank  as  I  proceeded,  I  became  duke,  peer,  provincial  governor, 
and  marshal  of  France,  before  reaching  my  inn  in  the  evening! 
My  servant's  voice,  modestly  calling  me  **  Monsieur,"  forced  me 
to  return  to  myself  and  abdicate. 

The  following  days  the  same  dreams,  the  same  intoxication, 
—  for  my  journey  was  a  long  one.  I  was  going  to  the  neigh- 
borhood of   Sedan,  to  the   Duke   of  C ;    an    old   friend  of  my 

father,  and  patron  of  my  family.  He  was  to  take  me  to  Paris, 
where  he  was  expected  at  the  end  of  the  month;  present  me  at 
Versailles,  and  obtain  for  me  through  his  influence  a  company 
of  dragoons. 

I  reached  Sedan  in  the  evening,  and  as  it  was  late  I  post- 
poned calling  upon  my  patron  until  the  morrow;  and  went  to 
lodge  at  the  Arms  of  France, —  the  finest  hotel  in  the  city,  and 
the  usual  rendezvous  for  officers.  For  Sedan  is  a  garrisoned 
town.  The  streets  have  a  warlike  aspect,  and  the  citizens  them- 
selves a  martial  bearing,  which  seems  to  tell  strangers,  "We  are 
compatriots  of  the  great  Turenne.** 

While  chatting  at  the  supper  table  I  inquired  the  way  to  the 

Duke  of  C 's  castle,  which  was  about  three  leagues  from  the 

town. 

"Any  one  will  tell  you,"  they  said.  "It  is  well  known  about 
here.  It  is  there  that  a  great  warrior,  a  celebrated  man, —  Mar- 
shal Fabert, —  died." 

And  the  conversation  turned  to  Marshal  Fabert,  as  was  quite 
natural   among   young   soldiers.     They   talked   of  his   battles,  his 


,0092  AUGUSTIN   EUGENE   SCRIBE 

exploits,  his  modesty, —  which  made  him  refuse  letters  of  nobil- 
ity and  the  collar  of  his  order  offered  him  by  Louis  XIV.  They 
spoke  especially  of  the  remarkable  good  fortune  which  had  made 
the  simple  soldier  —  the  son  of  a  printer  —  a  marshal  of  France. 
At  that  time  he  was  the  sole  example  of  such  advancement, 
which  even  during  his  life  had  seemed  so  extraordinary  that  the 
vulgar  had  not  hesitated  to  assign  it  to  supernatural  causes. 
They  said  that  from  childhood  he  had  busied  himself  with  magic 
and  sorcery;   that  he  had  made  a  compact  with  the  devil. 

•  And  our  landlord,  who  added  the  credulity  of  the  Breton  to 
the  stupidity  of  a  peasant  of  Champagne,  assured  us  with  great 
coolness  that  in  the  castle  where  Fabert  had  died,  a  black  man 
whom  no  one  knew  had  been  seen  to  go  into  his  room,  and  had 
then  disappeared,  bearing  with  him  the  marshal's  soul,  which 
belonged  to  him  from  an  earlier  purchase.  He  said  that  even 
yet,  in  May,  the  time  of  Fabert's  death,  the  black  man  appeared 
at  evening  carrying  a  little  light. 

This  story  enlivened  our  dessert,  and  we  drank  a  bottle  of 
champagne  to  Fabert's  familiar  demon,  inviting  him  to  take  us 
also  under  his  protection,  and  to  make  us  gain  a  few  battles  like 
Colhoures  and  La  Marfec. 

The  next  day  I  rose  early,  and  made  my  way  to  the  castle  of 

the  Duke  of  C ;   an  immense  Gothic  manor  which  at  another 

time  I  might  not  have  noticed  especially,  but  which,  remembering 
the  account  of  the  evening  before,  I  now  regarded  with  curiosity 
and  emotion. 

The  valet  to  whom  I  addressed  myself  answered  that  he  did 
not  know  whether  his  master  was  at  home,  or  if  he  could  receive 
me.  I  gave  him  my  name,  and  he  left  me  alone  in  a  kind  of 
armory,  hung  with  paraphernalia  of  the  chase  and  family  por- 
traits. 

I  waited  for  some  time,  and  no  one  came.  So  the  career  of 
glory  and  honor  I  had  dreamed  began  in  the  antechamber,  I  said 
to  myself;  and  grew  discontented  and  impatient.  I  had  counted 
the  family  portraits  and  the  beams  of  the  ceiling  two  or  three 
times,  when  I  heard  a  slight  sound.  A  door  not  quite  closed  had 
been  blown  ajar.  I  looked  in,  and  saw  a  very  pretty  room,  lighted 
by  a  glass  door  and  by  two  great  windows  which  looked  upon 
a  magnificent  park.  I  took  a  few  steps  in  this  room,  and  then 
stopped  at  a  sight  I  had  not  yet  noticed.  A  man  with  his  back 
toward  me  was  lying  on  a  sofa.     He  rose,  and  without  noticing 


AUGUSTIN   EUGENE   SCRIBE  I3093 

me,  rushed  to  the  window.  Tears  furrowed  his  cheeks.  Pro- 
found despair  seemed  printed  on  all  his  features.  He  stood 
motionless  for  some  time,  with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands; 
then  he  began  to  stride  up  and  down.  Now  he  saw  me  and  trem- 
bled. I,  pained  and  abashed  at  my  own  indiscretion,  wanted  to 
withdraw,  murmuring  words  of  excuse. 

« Who  are  you  ?  What  do  you  want  ?  *^  he  said  in  a  strong 
voice,  holding  my  arm. 

«I  am  Sir  Bernard  of  Roche-Bernard;  and  I  have  just  arrived 
from  Bretagne.* 

«I  know,  I  know,"  he  said,  and  threw  himself  into  my  arms-, 
then  made  me  sit  beside  him,  talking  so  eagerly  of  my  father 
and  all  my  family  that  I  did  not  doubt  he  was  the  owner  of  the 
castle. 

«You  are  M.  de  C ?»  I  asked. 

He  rose  and  looked  at  me  excitedly.  "  I  was,  but  I  am  no 
longer;  I  am  nothing!  *'  And  seeing  my  astonishment,  he  ex- 
claimed, «Not  another  word,  young  man:  do  not  question  me!'* 

"But,  sir,  I  have  unintentionally  witnessed  your  sorrow;  and 
if  my  friendship,  my  devotion,  can  bring  you  any  comfort — " 

«  Yes,  yes,  you're  right.  Not  that  you  can  change  my  fate, 
but  at  least  you  can  receive  my  last  wishes.  That  is  all  I  ask  of 
you !  ** 

He  closed  the  door;  then  sat  down  again  beside  me,  who, 
trembling  and  agitated,  awaited  his  words.  His  physiognomy 
bore  an  expression  I  had  never  seen  on  any  one.  The  brow  I 
studied  seemed  marked  by  fatality.  His  face  was  pale;  his  black 
eyes  flashed;  from  time  to  time  his  features,  changed  by  suffer- 
ing, contracted  with  an  ironic,  infernal  smile. 

<<What  I  am  going  to  tell  you,**  he  continued,  "will  confound 
your  reason.  You  will  doubt  —  you  will  not  believe — I  myself 
still  doubt  very  often,  at  least  I  try  to:  but  there  are  the 
proofs ;  and  in  all  our  surroundings  —  in  our  very  organization  — 
there  are  many  other  mysteries  that  we  have  to  accept  without 
understanding.  ** 

He  stopped  a  moment  as  though  to  collect  his  ideas,  passed  a 
hand  over  his  brow,  and  went  on:  — 

<<  I  was  born  in  this  castle.  I  had  two  brothers,  both  older, 
who  would  inherit  the  property  and  titles  of  our  family.  There 
was  nothing  for  me  but  an  abba's  mantle;  and  yet  thoughts  of 
glory  and  ambition   fermented  in  my  head,  and  made  my  heart 


13094  AUGUSTIN   EUGENE   SCRIBE 

beat.  Unhappy  in  obscurity,  hungry  for  renown,  I  dreamed  only 
how  to  acquire  it,  and  was  insensible  to  all  the  pleasures  and 
sweetness  of  life.  The  present  was  nothing  to  me;  I  lived  only 
in  the  future,  and  that  presented  itself  to  me  in  darkest  colors. 

"  I  was  almost  thirty,  and  had  accomplished  nothing.  At  that 
time,  in  the  capital,  literary  reputations  whose  fame  reached  even 
our  province  were  springing  up  everywhere. 

"Ah!  I  often  said  to  myself,  if  I  could  only  win  a  name  in 
letters!  That  would  give  me  the  glory  which  is  the  only  happi- 
ness! 

"As  confidant  of  my  sorrows  I  had  an  old  servant,  an  aged 
negro,  who  had  been  in  the  castle  before  I  was  born,  and  was 
certainly  the  most  ancient  inmate,  for  no  one  remembered  his 
coming.  The  country  people  declared  even  that  he  had  known 
Marshal  Fabert,   and  had  witnessed  his  death.  ^^ 

I  started;   and  the  speaker  asked  me  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Nothing,  ^'  I  answered ;  but  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the 
black  man  about  whom  my  landlord  had  been  talking  the  evening 
before. 

M.  de  C continued :     "  One  day,  before  Yago  (that  was  the 

negro's  name),  I  yielded  to  the  despair  inspired  by  my  obscurity 
and  useless  existence,  and  cried  out,  *  I  would  give  ten  years  of 
my  life  to  be  placed  in  the  first  rank  of  our  authors !  * 

"^Ten  years,'  he  said  coldly:  Uhat  is  a  great  deal.  That  is 
a  large  price  for  a  slight  thing.  Never  mind.  I  accept  your  ten 
years.  I  will  take  them.  Remember  your  promise;  I  will  keep 
mine. ' 

"  I  cannot  paint  my  surprise  at  hearing  this.  I  thought  the 
years  must  have  enfeebled  his  reason.  I  smiled  and  shrugged 
my  shoulders;  and  a  few  days  later  I  left  this  castle  to  go  to 
Paris.  There  I  found  myself  launched  in  literary  circles.  Their 
example  encouraged  me;  and  I  published  several  works  whose 
success  I  won't  recount  now.  All  Paris  hastened  to  applaud 
them;  the  journals  resounded  with  my  praises;  the  new  name  I 
had  adopted  became  famous:  and  even  yesterday,  young  man, 
you  yourself  were  admiring  it  —  *' 

Here  another  gesture  of  surprise  from  me  interrupted  him. 

"  Then  you  are  not  the  Duke  de  C ?  *'   I  exclaimed. 

"No,**  he  answered  coldly. 

And  I  said  to  myself,  "A  celebrated  author!  —  is  he  Marmon- 
tel?  is  he  D'Alembert  ?  is  he  Voltaire  ?'' 


AUGUSTIN   EUGENE   SCRIBE  13095 

My  unknown  smiled;  a  sigh  of  regret  and  contempt  touched 
his  lips,   and  he  continued:  — 

<^  The  literary  reputation  I  had  desired  soon  ceased  to  satisfy 
a  spirit  as  ardent  as  mine.  I  aspired  to  nobler  success;  and  I 
said  to  Yago,  who  had  followed  me  to  Paris:  ^ There  is  no  real 
glory  or  veritable  fame  except  in  the  career  of  arms.  What  is 
a  man  of  letters,  a  poet  ?  Nothing  at  all.  Tell  me  of  a  great 
captain,  a  general, —  that  is  the  destiny  for  me;  and  for  a  grand 
military  reputation  I  would  give  ten  of  the  years  which  remain 
to  me,' 

"  *  I  accept  them, '  answered  Yago.  *  I  take  them.  They  be. 
long  to  me.     Don't  forget  it.'" 

At  this  point  the  unknown  stopped  again,  seeing  the  trouble 
and  hesitation  in  my  face. 

**  I  told  you,  young  man,  you  could  not  believe  me.  This 
seems  a  dream,  a  chimera,  to  you  —  to  me  also!  And  yet  the 
rank,  the  honors  I  obtained,  were  no  illusion :  the  soldiers  I  led 
under  fire,  the  redoubts  captured,  the  flags  conquered,  the  vic- 
tories with  which  all  France  resounded,  were  all  my  work; — all 
this  glory  was  mine!*' 

While  he  was  walking  up  and  down,  talking  thus  with  heat 
and  enthusiasm,  my  surprise  increased,  and  I  thought:  ^*  Who 
is  beside  me  ?  Is  it  Coigny  ?  is  it  Richelieu  ?  is  it  Marshal 
Saxe? » 

From  a  state  of  exaltation,  my  unknown  fell  into  depression; 
and  drawing  near,  he  said  gloomily:  — 

"Yago  was  right;  and  later,  when  disgusted  with  the  vain 
incense  of  military  glory,  I  aspired  to  what  is  alone  of  real  and 
positive  value  in  this  world, —  when,  at  the  price  of  five  or  six 
years  of  existence,  I  desired  gold  and  riches,  he  granted  them  to 
me.  Yes,  young  man ;  yes,  I  have  seen  fortune  second  and  sur- 
pass all  my  wishes, —  lands,  forests,  castles.  This  very  morning 
all  was  still  in  my  power;  and  if  you  don't  believe  me,  if  you 
doubt  Yago, —  wait  —  wait  —  he  is  coming,  and  you  will  see  for 
yourself,  with  yoiir  own  eyes,  that  what  confounds  your  reason 
and  mine  is  unhappily  only  too  real." 

The  unknown  approached  the  mantelpiece,  looked  at  the  clock, 
made  a  gesture  of  horror,  and  said  in  a  low  voice:  — 

^*  This  morning  at  dawn  I  felt  so  weak  and  exhausted  that  I 
could  scarcely  rise.     I  rang  for  my  valet.     Yago  appeared. 

*  *  What  is  the  matter  with  me  ? '  I  said  to  him. 


13096 


AUGUSTIN   EUGfiNE   SCRIBE 


"  *  Master,  nothing  that  is  not  very  natural.  The  hour  is 
approaching;  the  moment  is  at  hand. ^ 

«<And  which— ?^ 

^*  ^  Can't  you  guess  ?  Heaven  had  accorded  you  sixty  years  of 
life;  you  had  had  thirty  when  I  began  to  obey  you.^ 

*  *  Yago !  ^  I  cried  in  terror,  *■  are  you  speaking  seriously  ?  * 

*  *  Yes,  master ;  in  five  years  you  have  expended  in  glory 
twenty-five  years  of  existence.  You  gave  them  to  me.  They 
belong  to  me,  and  will  now  be  added  to  mine.* 

^^  <  What !     That  was  the  price  of  your  services  ?  * 

**  *  Others  have  paid  still  more ;  for  example,  Fabert,  whom 
also  I  protected.* 

*^  *  Be  quiet!  Be  quiet!*  I  said  to  him.  ^This  isn't  possible. 
It  isn't  true!* 

^^  *As  you  will:  but  prepare  yourself;  for  you  have  only  half 
an  hour  to  live.* 

"  ^  You  are  mocking  me ;   you  are  deceiving  me !  * 

^^  *  Not  at  all.  Calculate  it  yourself.  Thirty-five  years  which 
you  have  really  lived,  and  twenty-five  that  you  have  lost!  Total, 
sixty.     That  is  your  account.     To  every  one  his  own !  * 

^*And  he  wanted  to  go  —  and  I  felt  myself  growing  weaker;  I 
felt  life  escaping  from  me. 

***Yago!   Yago!     Give  me  a  few  hours  —  a  few  hours  more!' 

^*  ^  No,  no,  *  he  answered.  *■  That  would  shorten  my  account, 
and  I  know  better  than  you  the  price  of  life.  There  is  no  treas- 
ure worth  two  hours  of  existence.* 

^*And  I  could  scarcely  speak;  my  eyes  were  clouding,  the 
coldness  of  death  was  chilling  my  veins. 

^^  *Ah !  *  I  said  with  an  effort,  *  take  back  the  gifts  for  which 
I  have  sacrificed  everything.  For  four  hours  more  I  will  re- 
nounce my  gold  and  all  the  opulence  I  so  desired.* 

"  *  So  be  it.  You  have  been  a  good  master,  and  I  will  grant 
you  that.* 

^*  I  felt  my  strength  coming  back ;  and  I  cried,  '  Four  hours 
is  so  little!  Yago!  Yago!  grant  me  four  more,  and  I  will  give 
up  my  literary  fame,  and  all  the  works  which  placed  me  so  high 
in  the  esteem  of  the  world.* 

**  ^  Four  hours  for  that !  *  said  the  negro  disdainfully.  ^  It  is  ^ 
great  deal.     Never  mind:   I  will  not  refuse  this  last  grace.* 

"  ^  No,  not  the  last,*  I  said  clasping  my  hands.  ^Yago!  Yago,' 
I  implore  you,  give  me  until  evening, —  the  entire  day, —  and  let 


AUGUSTIN  EUGfiNE  SCRIBE  1 309  7 

my  exploits  and  victories,  my  military  fame,  be  forever  effaced 
from  the  memory  of  men!  This  day,  Yago,  this  whole  day,  and 
I  will  be  content ! ' 

«*You  abuse  my  goodness,*  he  answered;  *and  I  am  making 
a  foolish  bargain.  But  never  mind  again.  You  shall  Hve  till  sun- 
set. Ask  no  more.  Then  good-by  until  evening !  I  will  come 
for  you.* 

*And  he  went  away,"  continued  the  unknown  despairingly, 
**  and  this  day  is  the  last  which  remains  to  me ! "  Then  approach- 
ing the  glass  door  which  opened  upon  the  park,  he  cried:  *^  I 
shall  no  longer  see  this  beautiful  sky,  these  green  lawns,  this 
sparkling  water;  I  shall  no  longer  breathe  the  air  fragrant  with 
spring!  Fool  that  I  was!  For  twenty-five  years  longer  I  might 
still  enjoy  the  good  things  which  God  bestows  upon  all,  and 
whose  sweetness  I  appreciate  now  for  the  first  time !  And  I 
have  exhausted  my  days!  I  have  sacrificed  them  to  a  vain 
chimera,  to  a  sterile  fame,  which  did  not  make  me  happy,  and 
which  is  dead  before  me !  See  —  see  —  **  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
peasants  who  were  singing  as  they  crossed  the  park  to  their 
work :  "  what  would  I  not  give  to  share  their  labor  and  poverty ! 
But  I  have  no  longer  anything  to  give  nor  anything  to  hope, 
here  below  —  not  even  unhappiness !  " 

At  that  moment  a  ray  of  sun,  of  the  sun  of  May,  lighted  up 
his  pale  distracted  features.  He  seized  my  arm  with  a  kind  of 
delirium  and  said :  — 

"See  —  see  them!  How  beautiful  the  sun  is!  How  beautiful 
the  country  is!  I  must  leave  all  that!  Ah,  at  least  let  me  enjoy 
it  once  more!  Let  me  catch  the  full  savor  of  this  pure  beautiful 
day :   for  me  there  will  be  no  morrow !  ** 

He  rushed  out  into  the  park,  and  disappeared  down  a  winding 
path  before  I  could  stop  him. 

In  truth  I  had  not  strength  to  do  it.  I  had  fallen  back  on 
the  sofa,  overcome  with  what  I  had  seen  and  heard.  I  rose  and 
walked,  to  assure  myself  that  I  was  not  dreaming.  Then  the 
door  opened,  and  a  servant  said  to  me:  — 

"Here  is  my  master,  the  Duke  de  C- . '* 

A  man  of  about  sixty,  of  distinguished  appearance,  came  for- 
ward, offering  me  his  hand,  and  apologizing  for  keeping  me  wait- 
ing. 

"I  was  not  at  home,"  he  said.  "I  have  just  come  from  town, 
where  I  have  been  seeking  advice  upon  the  health  of  my  younger 
brother.** 


13098  AUGUSTIN   EUGENE   SCRIBE 

**  Is  his  life  in  danger  ?  '^  I  exclaimed. 

"No,  monsieur,  thank  Heaven,*^  answered  the  duke:  *but  in 
his  youth,  thoughts  of  glory  and  ambition  exalted  his  imagina- 
tion ;  and  recently  a  severe  illness  has  left  him  prey  to  a  kind  of 
delusion,  in  which  he  is  constantly  convinced  that  he  has  only  one 
day  longer  to  live.     It  is  his  mania. '^ 

All  was  explained! 

*  Now  as  to  you,  young  man,'*  continued  the  duke:  "we  must 
see  what  we  can  do  to  advance  you.  We  will  start  for  Versailles 
at  the  end  of  the  month.      I  will  present  you.'* 

"  I  know  your  kind  disposition  toward  me,  monsieur,  and  wish 
to  thank  you;   but — " 

**What!  you  have  not  renounced  the  court,  and  the  advan- 
tages which  await  you  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur. " 

"  But  remember  that  with  my  help  you  can  make  your  way 
rapidly;  and  that  with  a  little  patience  and  perseverance  you  can 
in  ten  years  —  " 

"Ten  lost  years!*  I  exclaimed. 

"But  then,"  he  continued  in  astonishment,  "is  that  too  dear 
a  price  for  glory  and  fortune  and  honors  .>  Come,  come,  young 
man,  we  will  go  to  Versailles." 

"  No,  duke :  I  am  going  back  to  Bretagne ;  and  once  more  I 
beg  you  to  receive  my  thanks,  and  those  of  my  family." 

"  It  is  madness !  "  exclaimed  the  duke. 

And  thinking  of  what  I  had  seen  and  heard,  I  said  to  myself. 
*  It  is  wisdom !  " 

The  next  day  I  started,  and  with  what  delight  I  saw  again 
my  noble  castle  of  Roche-Bernard,  the  old  trees  of  my  park,  the 
glorious  Bretagne  sun!  I  had  recovered  my  vassals,  my  sisters, 
my  mother  —  and  happiness!  which  has  never  deserted  me  since; 
for  one  week  later  I  married  Henrietta. 


I3099 


JOHN   SELDEN 

(1584-1654) 

5F  Selden,  Milton  wrote,  <^The  chief  of  learned  men  reputed 
in  this  land,  John  Selden.'^  So  our  own  Sumner:  "John 
Selden,  unsurpassed  for  learning  and  ability  in  the  whole 
splendid  history  of  the  English  bar.>>  And  Edward  Hyde,  Earl  of 
Clarendon :  "  Mr.  Selden  was  a  person  whom  no  character  can  flat- 
ter, or  transmit  in  any  expressions  equal  to  his  merit  and  virtue." 
Selden  was  the  writer  of  many  learned  books:  books  upon  the  law, 
books  upon  the  customs  of  the  Hebrews,  books  upon  all  manner  of 
abstruse  subjects,  books  in  English  and  in 
Latin;  that  which  remains  of  him  is  a  book 
which  he  neither  published  nor  wrote.  Like 
White's  <  Natural  History  of  Selborne,*  and 
not  a  few  other  books  which  "  were  not 
born  to  die,"  Selden's  <  Table-Talk'  was 
a  work  which  came  without  observation. 
Much  of  his  deliberate  work  is  dry  as  dry 
could  be.  Aubrey,  who  is  relied  upon  in 
some  measure  for  his  biography,  says  that 
he  was  a  poet,  and  quotes  Sir  John  Suck- 
ling as  authority;  nothing  would  seem  more 
improbable  from  what  he  has  to  say  upon 
poetry:  "  Tis  a  fine  thing  for  Children  to 
learn  to  make  Verse ;  but  when  they  come 

to  be  men  they  must  speak  like  other  men,  or  else  they  will  be 
laught  at.  'Tis  ridiculous  to  speak,  or  write,  or  preach  in  Verse.  As 
'tis  good  to  learn  to  dance,  a  man  may  learn  his  Leg,  learn  to  go 
handsomely;  but  'tis  ridiculous  for  him  to  dance  when  he  should  go.'* 
His  father  was  "a  sufficient  plebeian, '^  of  the  village  of  Salvington 
in  Sussex,  and  proficient  in  music;  by  which  he  is  said  to  have  won 
his  wife,  who  was  of  somewhat  higher  station  in  life.  John  was  bom 
in  his  cottage  at  Salvington,  December  i6th,  1584,  in  the  latter  part 
of  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth ;  and  died,  a  man  of  great  distinction 
and  wealth,  at  Whitefriars  in  London,  November  30th,  1654,  in  the 
sixth  year  of  the  Commonwealth.  It  was  a  rich  period  in  English 
literature ;  the  period  of  Shakespeare  and  Bacon  and  Milton  and  Jon- 
son  and  their   companions.     And  it  was  a  stirring  period   in  history. 


John  Selden 


j^ioo  JOHN   SELDEN 

covering  as  it  did  the  reigns  of  James  I.  and  Charles  I.,  the  trial 
and  beheading  of  the  latter,  and  the  ascendency  of  Cromwell  and 
the  Puritans.  The  boy  John  Selden,  educated  at  the  Free  School  in 
Chichester,  and  at  Hart  Hall,  Oxford,  had  hardly  more  than  settled 
himself  at  the  Inner  Temple  and  reached  man's  estate,  when  he  had 
<^  not  only  run  through  the  whole  body  of  the  law,  but  become  a 
prodigy  in  most  parts  of  learning;  especially  in  those  which  were 
riot  common,  or  little  frequented  or  regarded  by  the  generality  of 
students  of  his  time.  So  that  in  a  few  years  his  name  was  wonder- 
fully advanced,  not  only  at  home,  but  in  foreign  countries;  and  was 
usually   styled  the  great  dictator  of  learning  of  the  English   nation.  >* 

In  1618,  after  issuing  several  other  works,  he  published  a  ^History 
of  Tithes,*  which  had  been  licensed  without  question  by  the  censor, 
but  nevertheless  excited  such  an  outcry  that  its  author  was  sum- 
moned before  the  King,  and  subsequently  before  the  High  Commis- 
sion Court,  and  forced  to  recant.  He  acknowledged  the  error  that 
he  had  committed  in  publishing  the  book,  but  appears  not  to  have 
acknowledged  any  error  in  the  book.  The  book  was  suppressed,  and 
afterward  ^< confuted**  by  Dr.  Montagu;  and  King  James  told  Selden, 
"  If  you  or  your  friends  write  anything  against  his  confutation,  I  will 
thfow  you  into  prison.**  He  soon  had  an  opportunity  to  test  the 
King's  prisons  for  other  reasons.  He  was  incarcerated  for  five  weeks 
in  1 62 1,  for  his  share  in  the  protest  of  the  House  of  Commons  in 
respect  to  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  members;  and  again  in 
1629  he  was  imprisoned  in  the  Tower  for  many  months  on  the  charge 
of  sedition.  He  entered  Parliament  in  1624,  and  with  the  exception 
of  Charles's  first  Parliament,  and  the  Short  Parliament,  he  appears  to 
ha^e  been  a  member  imtil  his  death.  In  the  Long  Parliament  he 
represented  Oxford  University,  being  returned  without  opposition. 

Selden  was  always  a  conservative,  not  so  much  in  the  political 
as  in  the  natural,  the  literal,  sense.  During  the  earlier  years  of  the 
long  contest  between  the  King  and  the  Commons,  he  leaned  toward 
the  latter;  but  in  after  years  his  attitude  was  less  satisfactory  to 
them.  He  was  the  arch-supporter  of  the  law,  —  of  human  law:  for 
the  Higher  Law  —  at  all  events  for  the  Jus  Divinum  as  interpreted  by 
the  clergy  —  he  had  slight  esteem  as  against  the  law  of  the  land.  In 
this  he  represented  to  the  full  one  side  of  the  shield:  the  other,  that 
which  exhibits  the  supreme  inner  right  of  the  individual,  he  seemed 
sometimes  wholly  to  ignore. 

His  reputation  was  so  great  that  his  support  was  sought  on  all 
sides;  but  his  independence  caused  him  to  reject  some  overtures, 
while  it  prevented  others.  King  Charles  thought  to  make  him  Keeper 
of  the  Great  Seal;  but  was  dissuaded  on  the  ground  that  "he  would 
absolutely  refuse   the   place   if  it   were   offered  to  him.**     In   1647  he 


JOHN  SELDEN  1310I 

was  elected  Master  of  Trinity  Hall,  Cambridge,  but  declined.  It  is 
said  that  he  was  so  bent  on  preserving  his  thoughts  that  he  would 
sometimes  write  while  under  the  barber's  hands ;  which  seems  to  show 
that  the  barber  did  not  make  it  a  point  to  be  so  entertaining  in  those 
days  as  of  latter  time. 

For  the  last  twenty  years  of  his  life,  the  Rev.  Richard  Milward 
was  his  amanuensis;  and  it  was  by  him  that  the  <Table-Talk>  was 
taken  down  bit  by  bit.  It  was  not  published  until  many  years 
after  the  death  of  both.  Says  Milward  in  his  dedication :  « I  had  the 
opportunity  to  hear  his  Discourse  twenty  years  together;  and  least  all 
those  Excellent  things  that  usually  fell  from  him  might  be  lost,  some 
of  them  from  time  to  time  I  faithfully  committed  to  writing.  .  .  . 
Truly  the  Sense  and  Notion  here  is  wholly  his,  and  most  of  the 
words. >>  The  book  is  a  rich  storehouse.  Coleridge  says:  <<  There  is 
more  weighty  bullion  sense  in  this  book  than  I  ever  found  in  the 
same  number  of  pages  of  any  uninspired  writer.*^ 

In  taking  passages  from  it  here  and  there,  it  should  be  premised 
that  other  samples  might  be  found  of  a  sense  quite  different. 


FROM   THE    < TABLE-TALK > 
The  Scriptures 

THE  Text  serves  only  to  guess  by:  we  must  satisfie  our  selves 
fully  out  of  the  Authors  that  liv'd  about  those  times. 

In  interpreting  the  Scripture,  many  do  as  if  a  man 
should  see  one  have  ten  pounds,  which  he  reckoned  by  i.  2.  3.  4. 
5.  6.  7.  8.  9.  ID, —  meaning  four  was  but  four  Unities,  and  five, 
five  Unities,  etc.,  and  that  he  had  in  all  but  ten  pounds;  the 
other  that  sees  him,  takes  not  the  Figures  together  as  he  doth, 
but  picks  here  and  there,  and  thereupon  reports  that  he  hath 
five  pounds  in  one  Bag,  and  six  pounds  in  another  Bag,  and 
nine  pounds  in  another  Bag,  &c.,  whenas  in  truth  he  has  but  ten 
pounds  in  all.  So  we  pick  out  a  Text  here  and  there  to  make 
it  serve  our  turn ;  whereas,  if  we  take  it  all  together,  and  con- 
sider'd  what  went  before  and  what  followed  after,  we  should 
find  it  meant  no  such  thing. 

The  Bishops 

The    Bishops   were   too   hasty,    else    with    a   discreet   slowness 
they  might  have  had  what  they  aim'd  at.     The  old  Story  of  the 


13102  JOHN   SELDEN 

Fellow    that    told    the    Gentleman    that    he    might   get    to    such   a 
place  if  he    did    not  ride   too  fast,   would  have   fitted    their   turn. 


Bishops  are  now  unfit  to  Govern,  because  of  their  Learning. 
They  are  bred  up  in  another  Law;  they  run  to  the  Text  for 
something  done  amongst  the  Jews  that  nothing  concerns  England. 
'Tis  just  as  if  a  Man  would  have  a  Kettle,  and  he  would  not  go 
to  our  Brazier  to  have  it  made  as  they  make  Kettles,  but  he 
would  have  it  as  Hiram  made  his  Brass  work,  who  wrought  in 
Solomon's  Temple.     ... 

They  that  would  pull  down  the  Bishops  and  erect  a  new 
way  of  Government,  do  as  he  that  pulls  down  an  old  House  and 
builds  another  in  another  fashion:  there's  a  great  deal  of  do,  and 
a  great  deal  of  trouble;  the  old  rubbish  must  be  carryed  away, 
and  new  materials  must  be  brought;  Workmen  must  be  provided: 
and  perhaps  the  old  one  would  have  serv'd  as  well. 


Books 

In  Answering  a  Book,  'tis  best  to  be  short;  otherwise  he  that 
I  write  against  will  suspect  I  intend  to  weary  him,  not  to  satisfy 
him.  Besides,  in  being  long  I  shall  give  my  Adversary  a  huge 
advantage:  somewhere  or  other  he  will  pick  a  hole. 

To  quote  a  modern  Dutch  Man  where  I  may  use  a  Classic 
Author,  is  as  if  I  were  to  justify  my  Reputation,  and  I  neglect 
all  Persons  of  Note  and  Quality  that  know  me,  and  bring  the 
Testimonial  of  the  Scullion  in  the  Kitchen. 


Ceremony 

Ceremony  keeps  up  all  things.  'Tis  like  a  Penny-Glass  to  a 
rich  Spirit,  or  some  Excellent  Water:  without  it  the  water  were 
spilt,  the  Spirit  lost. 

Of  all  people,  Ladies  have  no  reason  to  cry  down  Ceremonies, 
for  they  take  themselves  slighted  without  it.  And  were  they 
not  used  with  Ceremony, —  with  Compliments  and  Addresses,  with 
Legs,  and  Kissing  of  Hands, —  they  were  the  pittyfullest  Creat- 
ures in  the  World;  but  yet  methinks  to  kiss  their  Hands  after 
their  Lips  as  some  do,  is  like  little  Boys,  that  after  they  eat  the 
Apple,  fall  to  the  paring,  out  of  a  Love  they  have  to  the  Apple. 


JOHN  SELDEN  13103 

Clergy 

The  Clergy  would  have  tis  believe  them  against  our  own  Rea- 
son, as  the  Woman  would  have  her  Husband  against  his  own 
Eyes.  ^*  What !  will  you  believe  your  own  Eyes  before  your  own 
sweet  Wife  ?  '^ 

The  House  of  Commons 

The  House  of  Commons  is  called  the  Lower  House  in  Twenty 
Acts  of  Parliament;  but  what  are  Twenty  Acts  of  Parliament 
amongst  Friends  ? 

Competency 

That  which  is  a  Competency  for  one  Man,  is  not  enough  for 
another:  no  more  than  that  which  will  keep  one  Man  warm,  will 
keep  another  Man  warm;  one  man  can  go  in  Doublet  and  Hose, 
when  another  Man  cannot  be  without  a  Cloak  and  yet  have  no 
more  Cloaths  than  is  necessary  for  him. 

Conscience 

He  that  hath  a  Scrupulous  Conscience  is  like  a  Horse  that  is 
not  well  weigh'd:  he  starts  at  every  Bird  that  flies  out  of  the 
Hedge. 

A  Knowing  Man  will  do  that  which  a  tender  Conscience  Man 
dares  not  do,  by  reason  of  his  Ignorance:  the  other  knows  there 
is  no  hurt, —  as  a  Child  is  afraid  to  go  into  the  dark,  when  a 
Man  is  not,  because  he  knows  there  is  no  danger. 

Consecrated  Places 

All  things  are  God's  already:  we  can  give  him  no  right  by 
consecrating  any,  that  he  had  not  before ;  only  we  set  it  apart  to 
his  Service.  Just  as  when  a  Gardiner  brings  his  Lord  and  Mas- 
ter a  Basket  of  Apricocks,  and  presents  them,  his  Lord  thanks 
him,  perhaps  gives  him  something  for  his  pains;  and  yet  the 
Apricocks  were  as  much  his  Lord's  before  as  now. 

Council 

They  talk  (but  blasphemously  enough)  that  the  Holy  Ghost  is 
President  of  their  General  Councils;  when  the  truth  is,  the  odd 
man   is  still   the   Holy   Ghost. 


12104  JOHN   SELDEN 

Devils 

A  Person  of  Quality  came  to  my  Chamber  in  the  Temple, 
and  told  me  he  had  two  Devils  in  his  head  (I  wonder'd  what 
he  meant),  and  just  at  that  time  one  of  them  bid  him  kill  me 
(with  that  I  begun  to  be  afraid,  and  thought  he  was  mad) ;  he 
said  he  knew  I  could  Cure  him,  and  therefore  entreated  me  to 
give  him  something,  for  he  was  resolv'd  to  go  to  nobody  else.  I, 
perceiving  what  an  Opinion  he  had  of  me,  and  that  'twas  only 
Melancholy  that  troubl'd  him,  took  him  in  hand,  warranted  him 
if  he  would  follow  my  directions  to  Cure  him  in  a  short  time. 
I  desired  him  to  let  me  be  alone  about  an  hour,  and  then  to 
come  again,  which  he  was  very  willing  to.  In  the  mean  time 
I  got  a  Card,  and  lapt  it  up  handsome  in  a  piece  of  Taffata,  and 
put  strings  to  the  Taffata,  and  when  he  came,  gave  it  to  him  to 
hang  about  his  Neck;  withal  charged  him  that  he  should  not  dis- 
order himself,  neither  with  eating  or  drinking,  but  eat  very  little 
of  Supper,  and  say  his  Prayers  duly  when  he  went  to  Bed,  and 
I  made  no  question  but  he  would  be  well  in  three  or  four  days. 
Within  that  time  I  went  to  Dinner  to  his  House,  and  askt  him 
how  he  did  ?  He  said  he  was  much  better,  but  not  perfectly 
well;  for  in  truth  he  had  not  dealt  clearly  with  me:  he  had  four 
Devils  in  his  head,  and  he  perceiv'd  two  of  them  were  gone, 
with  that  which  I  had  given  him,  but  the  other  two  troubled  him 
still.  Well,  said  I,  I  am  glad  two  of  them  are  gone;  I  make  no 
doubt  but  to  get  away  the  other  two  likewise.  So  I  gave  him 
another  thing  to  hang  about  his  Neck:  three  days  after,  he  came 
to  me  to  my  Chamber  and  protest  he  was  now  as  well  as  ever 
he  was  in  his  life,  and  did  extreamly  thank  me  for  the  great 
care  I  had  taken  of  him.  I,  fearing  lest  he  might  relapse  into 
the  like  Distemper,  told  him  that  there  was  none  but  my  self 
and  one  Physitian  more  in  the  whole  Town,  that  could  Cure 
the  Devils  in  the  head;  and  that  was  Dr.  Harvey  (whom  I  had 
prepared),  and  wisht  him  if  ever  he  found  himself  ill  in  my 
absence  to  go  to  him,  for  he  could  Cure  his  Disease,  as  well 
as  my  self.  The  Gentleman  lived  many  Years,  and  was  never 
troubl'd  after. 

Friends 

Old  Friends  are  best.  King  James  us'd  to  call  for  his  Old 
Shoos:    they  were  easiest  for  his  Feet. 


•    JOHN   SELDEN  131015 

Humility 

Humility  is  a  Vertue  all  preach,  none  practice;  and  yet  every 
body  is  content  to  hear.  The  Master  thinks  it  good  Doctrine  for 
his  Servant,  the  Laity  for  the  Clergy,  and  the  Clergy  for  the 
Laity. 

Jews 

Talk  what  you  will  of  the  Jews,  that  they  are  Cursed,  they 
thrive  where  e'er  they  come;  they  are  able  to  oblige  the  Prince 
of  their  Country  by  lending  him  money;  none  of  them  beg; 
they  keep  together:  and  for  their  being  hated,  my  life  for  yours, 
Christians  hate  one  another  as  much. 


The  King 

The  King  calling  his  Friends  from  the  Parliament,  because  he 
had  use  of  them  at  Oxford,  is  as  if  a  man  should  have  use  of  a 
little  piece  of  wood,  and  he  runs  down  into  the  Cellar,  and  takes 
the  Spiggot;  in  the  mean  time  all  the  Beer  runs  about  the  House: 
when  his  Friends  are  absent  the  King  will  be  lost. 


The  Court  of  England 

The  Court  of  England  is  much  alter'd.  At  a  solemn  Dan- 
cing, first  you  had  the  grave  Measures,  then  the  Corrantoes  and 
the  Galliards,  and  this  is  kept  up  with  Ceremony,  at  length  to 
French-more,  and  the  Cushion-Dance,  and  then  all  the  Company 
Dance,  Lord  and  Groom,  Lady  and  Kitchen-Maid,  no  distinction. 
So  in  our  Court  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time  Gravity  and  State 
were  kept  up.  In  King  James's  time  things  were  pretty  well. 
But  in  King  Charles's  time,  there  has  been  nothing  but  French- 
more  and  the  Cushion-Dance,  omnium  gatherum,  tolly,  polly,  hoite 
come  toite. 


Language 

If  you  look  upon  the  Language  spoken  in  the  Saxon  time, 
and  the  Language  spoken  now,  you  will  find  the  difference  to 
be  just  as  if  a  man  had  a  Cloak  that  he  wore  plain  in  Queen 
Elizabeth's  days,  and  since,  here  has  put  in  a  piece  of  Red^ 
and  there  a  piece  of  Blew,  and  here  a  piece  of  Green,  and  there 


I2io6  JOHN   SELDEN  • 

a  piece  of  Orange-tawny.      We   borrow  words  from  the  French. 
Italian,   Latine,  as  every  Pedantick  man  pleases. 

We  have  more  words  than  Notions, —  half  a  dozen  words  for 
the  same  thing.  Sometime  we  put  a  new  signification  to  an  old 
word,  as  when  we  call  a  Piece  a  Gun.  The  word  Gun  was  in 
use  in  England  for  an  Engine  to  cast  a  thing  from  a  man,  long 
before  there  was  any  Gun-powder  found  out. 

Words  must  be  fitted  to  a  man's  mouth:  'twas  well  said  of 
the  Fellow  that  was  to  make  a  Speech  for  my  Lord  Mayor,  he 
desir'd  to  take  the  measure  of  his  Lordship's  mouth. 

Libels 

Tho'  some  make  slight  of  Libels,  yet  you  may  see  by  them 
how  the  wind  fits:  as  take  a  straw  and  throw  it  up  into  the 
Air,  you  shall  see  by  that  which  way  the  Wind  is;  which  you 
shall  not  do  by  casting  up  a  Stone.  More  solid  things  do  not 
show  the  Complexion  of  the  times  so  well  as  Ballads  and  Libels. 

Marriage 

Of  all  Actions  of  a  man's  life,  his  Marriage  does  least  con- 
cern other  people;  yet  of  all  Actions  of  our  Life,  'tis  most 
medled  with  by  other  people. 

Measure  of  Things 

We  measure  the  Excellency  of  other  men  by  some  Excel- 
lency we  conceive  to  be  in  our  selves.  Nash,  a  Poet,  poor  enough 
(as  Poets  us'd  to  be),  seeing  an  Alderman  with  his  Gold  Chain, 
upon  his  great  Horse,  by  way  of  scorn  said  to  one  of  his  Com- 
panions, Do  you  see  yon  fellow,  how  goodly,  how  big  he  looks: 
why,  that  fellow  cannot  make  a  blank  Verse! 

Number 

All  those  misterious  things  they  observe  in  numbers,  come 
to  nothing,  upon  this  very  ground;  because  number  in  it  self  is 
nothing,  has  not  to  do  with  Nature,  but  is  merely  of  Human 
Imposition,  a  meer  sound.  For  Example,  when  I  cry  one  a 
Clock,  two  a  Clock,  three  a  Clock, —  that  is  but  Man's  division  of 
time;  the  time  itself  goes  on,  and  it  had  been  all  one  in  Nature 
if  those   Hours  had  been  call'd  nine,   ten,  and  eleven.      So  when 


JOHN  SELDEN  13107 

they  say  the  Seventh  Son  is  Fortunate,  it  means  nothing;  for 
if  you  count  from  the  seventh  backwards,  then  the  first  is  the 
seventh:    why  is  not  he  likewise  Fortunate  ? 


Oaths 

When  men  ask  me  whether  they  may  take  an  Oath  in  their 
own  Sense,  'tis  to  me  as  if  they  should  ask  whether  they  may 
go  to  such  a  place  upon  their  own  Legs:  I  would  fain  know  how 
they  can  go  otherwise. 

Opinion 

Opinion  and  Affection  extremely  differ:  I  may  affect  a  Woman 
best,  but  it  does  not  follow  I  must  think  her  the  Handsomest 
Woman  in  the  World.  I  love  Apples  the  best  of  any  Fruit,  but 
it  does  not  follow  I  must  think  Apples  to  be  the  best  Fruit. 
Opinion  is  something  wherein  I  go  about  to  give  Reason  why 
all  the  World  should  think  as  I  think.  Affection  is  a  thing 
wherein   I   look   after  the   pleasing  of  myself. 

'Tis  a  vain  thing  to  talk  of  an  Heretick;  for  a  man  for  his 
heart  can  think  no  otherwise  than  he  does  think.  In  the  Primi- 
tive times  there  were  many  Opinions,  nothing  scarce  but  some 
or  other  held.  One  of  these  Opinions  being  embrac'd  by  some 
Prince,  and  received  into  his  Kingdom,  the  rest  were  Condemn'd 
as  Heresies;  and  his  Religion,  which  was  but  one  of  the  several 
Opinions,  first  is  said  to  be  Orthodox,  and  so  have  continu'd  ever 
since  the  Apostles. 

Peace 

Though  we  had  Peace,  yet  'twill  be  a  great  while  e'er  things 
be  settled.  Tho'  the  Wind  lye,  yet  after  a  Storm  the  Sea  will 
work  a  great  while. 

Pleasure 

Whilst  you  are  upon  Earth  enjoy  the  good  things  that  are 
here  (to  that  end  were  they  given),  and  be  not  melancholly,  and 
wish  yourself  in  Heaven.  If  a  King  should  give  you  the  keeping 
of  a  Castle,  with  all  things  belonging  to  it, —  Orchards,  Gardens, 
etc., —  and  bid  you  use  them;  withal  promise  you  that  after 
twenty  years  to  remove  you  to  Court,  and  to  make  you  a  Privy 


13108  JOHN    SELDEN 

Councillor, — if  you  should  neglect  your  Castle,  and  refuse  to  eat 
of  those  fruits,  and  sit  down,  and  whine,  and  wish  you  were  a 
Privy  Councillor,  do  you  think  the  King  would  be  pleased  with 
you? 

Prayer 

"  God  hath  given  gifts  unto  men. "  General  Texts  prove  noth- 
ing: let  him  shew  me  John,  William,  or  Thomas  in  the  Text,  and 
then  I  will  believe  him.  If  a  man  hath  a  voluble  Tongue,  we 
say.  He  hath  the  gift  of  Prayer.  His  gift  is  to  pray  long, —  that 
I  see ;   but  does  he  pray  better  ? 

We  take  care  what  we  speak  to  men,  but  to  God  we  may  say 
any  thing. 

Prayer  should  be  short,  without  giving  God  Almighty  Rea- 
sons why  he  should  grant  this  or  that:  he  knows  best  what  is 
good  for  us.  If  your  Boy  should  ask  you  a  Suit  of  Cloaths,  and 
give  you  Reasons,  "  otherwise  he  cannot  wait  upon  you,  he  cannot 
go  abroad,  but  he  shall  discredit  you,*^  would  you  endure  it?  You 
know  it  better  than  he:  let  him  ask  a  Suit  of  Cloaths. 


Preaching 

The  main  Argument  why  they  would  have  two  Sermons  a 
day,  is,  because  they  have  two  Meals  a  Day;  the  Soul  must 
be  fed  as  well  as  the  Body.  But  I  may  as  well  argue,  I  ought 
to  have  two  Noses  because  I  have  two  Eyes,  or  two  Mouths 
because  I  have  two  Ears.  What  have  Meals  and  Sermons  to  do 
one  with  another  ? 

Preferment 

When  the  Pageants  are  a  coming  there's  a  great  thrusting 
and  a  riding  upon  one  another's  backs,  to  look  out  at  the  Win- 
dow: stay  a  little,  and  they  will  come  just  to  you;  you  may  see 
them  quietly.  So  'tis  when  a  new  Statesman  or  Ofificer  is  chosen: 
there's  great  expectation  and  listening  who  it  should  be;  stay  a 
while,  and  you  may  know  quietly. 

Reason 

The  Reason  of  a  Thing  is  not  to  be  inquired  after,  till  you 
are   sure  the  Thing  it  self  be  so.     We  commonly  are  at  "  What's 


JOHN  SELDEN  13109 

the  Reason  of  it  ? "  before  we  are  sure  of  the  Thing.  'Twas  an 
excellent  Question  of  my  Lady  Gotten,  when  Sir  Robert  Gotten 
was  magnifying  of  a  Shooe  which  was  Moses's  or  Noah's,  and 
wondring  at  the  strange  Shape  and  Fashion  of  it:  But  Mr.  Cot- 
ten,  says  she,  are  you  sure  it  is  a  Shooe  ? 


Religion 

Men  say  they  are  of  the  same  Religion  for  Quietness's  sake; 
but  if  the  matter  were  well  Examin'd,  you  would  scarce  find 
Three  any  where  of  the  same  Religion  in  all  Points. 

Disputes  in  Religion  will  never  be  ended,  because  there  wants 
a  Measure  by  which  the  Business  would  be  decided.  The  Puri- 
tan would  be  judged  by  the  Word  of  God:  if  he  would  speak 
clearly,  he  means  himself,  but  he  is  ashamed  to  say  so;  and  he 
would  have  me  believe  him  before  a  whole  Ghurch,  that  has 
read  the  Word  of  God  as  well  as  he.  One  says  one  thing,  and 
another  another;  and  there  is,  I  say,  no  Measure  to  end  the 
Gontroversie.  'Tis  just  as  if  Two  men  were  at  Bowls,  and  both 
judg'd  by  the  Eye:  one  says  'tis  his  Gast,  the  other  says  'tis 
my  Gast;  and  having  no  Measure,  the  Difference  is  Eternal. 
Ben  Jonson  Satyrically  express'd  the  vain  Disputes  of  Divines 
by  Inigo  Lanthorne,  disputing  with  his  Puppet  in  a  Bartholomew 
Fair:  It  is  so;  It  is  not  so;  It  is  so;  It  is  not  so, —  crying  thus 
one  to  another  a  quarter  of  an  Hour  together. 

'Tis  to  no  purpose  to  labor  to  Reconcile  Religions,  when  the 
Interest  of  Princes  will  not  suffer  it.  'Tis  well  if  they  could  be 
Reconciled  so  far  that  they  should  not  cut  one  another's  Throats. 

Thanksgiving 

At  first  we  gave  Thanks  for  every  Victory  as  soon  as  ever 
'twas  obtained;  but  since  we  have  had  many  now  we  can  stay 
a  good  while.  We  are  just  like  a  Ghild:  give  him  a  Plum,  he 
makes  his  Leg;  give  him  a  second  Plum,  he  makes  another  Leg; 
at  last  when  his  Belly  is  full,  he  forgets  what  he  ought  to  do: 
then  his  Nurse,  or  somebody  else  that  stands  by  him,  puts  him 
in  mind  of  his  Duty —  Where's  your  Leg? 


131 lo  JOHN  SELDEN 


Wife 


He  that  hath  a  handsome  Wife,  by  other  men  is  thought 
happy;  'tis  a  pleasure  to  look  upon  her  and  be  in  her  company. 
but  the  Husband  is  cloy'd  with  her.  We  are  never  content  with 
what  we  have. 

You  shall  see  a  Monkey  sometime,  that  has  been  playing  up 
and  down  the  Garden,  at  length  leap  up  to  the  top  of  the  Wall, 
but  his  Clog  hangs  a  great  way  below  on  this  side ;  the  Bishop's 
Wife  is  like  that  Monkey's  Clog, —  himself  is  got  up  very  high, 
takes  place  of  the  Temporal  Barons,  but  his  wife  comes  a  great 
way  behind. 

'Tis  reason  a  man  that  will  have  a  Wife  should  be  at  the 
charge  of  her  Trinkets,  and  pay  all  the  scores  she  sets  on  him. 
He  that  will  keep  a  Monkey,  'tis  fit  he  should  pay  for  the 
Glasses  he   breaks. 

Wisdom 

Never  tell  your  Resolution  before  hand;  but  when  the  Cast  is 
thrown.  Play  it  as  well  as  you  can  to  win  the  Game  you  are  at. 
'Tis  but  folly  to  study  how  to  Play  Size-ace,  when  you  know  not 
whether  you  shall  throw  it  or  no. 


I 


X3I" 


ETIENNE   PIVERT   DE   SENANCOUR 

(1 770-1 846) 

5NE  work  of  Senancour's  has  lived.  The  others  —  moral  and 
philosophical  treatises,  and  one  feeble  novel,  <Isabelle,*  writ- 
ten in  his  old  age  as  a  sequel  to  his  famous  <Obermann> — ■ 
are  now  forgotten.  « But  <Obermann,>»  says  Matthew  Arnold,  «has 
qualities  which  make  it  permanently  valuable  to  kindred  minds.» 
Arnold  himself,  while  suffering  the  spiritual  isolation  there  portrayed, 
did  not  go  off  alone  to  suffer;  but  did  a  great  and  practical  work  in 
the  world  of  men.  Other  noble  minds  have  sympathized  with  Ober- 
mann,  among  them  George  Sand  and  Sainte-Beuve ;  but  for  most 
people,  such  writing,  however  noble  and  eloquent,  must  needs  be 
somewhat  futile.  It  must  after  all  be  healthy  instinct  which  guides 
men  as  well  as  children  to  turn  from  abstractions  to  accounts  of 
positive  achievement.  Heroic  action  is  far  more  thrilling  than  even 
its  prompting  impulse,  unfulfilled.  It  is  so  much  more  satisfactory 
to  receive  some  practical  lesson  in  living,  some  stimulus  to  richer 
sensation,  than  to  be  disheartened  by  the  wailings  of  failure. 

Senancour  early  showed  a  want  of  adaptability  to  existing  social 
conditions.  He  was  born  at  Paris  in  November  1770,  of  a  noble 
family,  to  whom  the  Revolution  brought  ruin.  Sickly  from  child- 
hood, he  was  destined  to  the  Church.  Obliged  by  his  father  to  enter 
St.  Sulpice,  he  rebelled  against  the  monastic  constraint,  and  aided  by 
his  mother,  escaped  to  Switzerland.  There  he  married,  and  lived  till 
toward  the  end  of  the  century;  when,  after  his  wife's  death,  he 
returned  to  Paris. 

<Obermann>  appeared  in  1804.  It  is  a  treatise  on  disillusion  and 
hopelessness,  lacking  in  vitality;  and  although  noble  in  tone,  has  not 
been  widely  appreciated.  It  is  less  a  novel  than  an  exposition,  in  a 
series  of  letters,  of  Senancour's  own  point  of  view.  Obermann,  the 
hero,  is  Senancour  in  very  slight  disguise.  He  is  «a  man  who  does 
not  know  what  he  is,  what  he  likes,  what  he  wants;  who  sighs  with- 
out cause;  who  desires  without  object;  and  who  sees  nothing  except 
that  he  is  not  in  his  place:  in  short,  who  drags  himself  through 
empty  space  and  in  an  infinite  tumult  of  vexations." 

<  Obermann*  is  valuable  and  interesting  as  a  pathological  study;  as 
a  reflection  of  the  spirit  of  revolt  and  discouragement  which  swept 
over    Europe,    and    spurred    on    Rousseau,    Byron,   and    many   others. 


12II2  fiTIENNE   PIVERT   DE   SENANCOUR 

Senancour  strongly  felt  himself  a  product  of  his  time.  Voltairean 
cynicism  struggled  in  him  with  Rousseauesque  sensibility, — the  lat- 
ter augmenting  a  longing  to  believe,  while  the  former  made  faith 
impossible.  He  had  the  terrible  controlling  self-consciousness  which 
prevented  a  moment's  escape  from  his  own  unsatisfied  desires.  He 
was  too  noble,  too  much  of  an  idealist,  to  enjoy  what  was  petty  and 
possible;  but  there  are  envious  tones  in  Obermann,  who  sometimes 
seems  half  to  despise  himself  that  he  cannot  do  and  feel  like  other 
men. 

The  strong  note  of  Senancour's  character  was  an  uncompromising 
need  of  sincerity.  He  detested  hypocrisy  in  himself  and  others.  He 
sought  truth  at  the  price  of  all  pleasant  illusion.  His  work  evidences 
Rousseau's  influence ;  but  unlike  Rousseau,  he  never  posed.  His  con- 
fidences are  genuinely  unreserved.  His  constant  unhappiness  —  as 
George  Sand  pointed  out  in  an  appreciation  which  prefaces  the  later 
editions  of  ^Obermann*  —  was  caused  by  want  of  proportion  between 
his  power  of  conception  and  his  capacity  to  perform.  He  had  a  life- 
long realization  of  failure.  He  was  akin  to  Amiel,  but  less  scholarly; 
more  emotional  and  less  intellectual. 

In  love  of  nature  he  found  perhaps  his  keenest  satisfaction.  He 
is  eloquent  in  description  of  the  Alpine  summits  with  their  fair  cold 
austerity,  and  the  pleasant  valleys,  the  mountain  streams,  and  the 
g^een  pastures,  upon  which  he  loved  to  look  down. 

Senancour    was    always    oppressed   by    poverty.      Forced    to    write 
for  his  living  for  half  a  century,  and  unable  to  win  favor,  he  fell  into 
want  in  his  old  age.     His  friends'  efforts,  especially  those  of  Thiers 
and  Villemain,  obtained  for  him  a  small  pension  from  Louis  Philippe, 
which  rendered  him  comfortable  until  his  death  at  St.  Cloud  in  1846. 


ALPINE   SCENERY 
From  < Obermann* 

IMAGINE  a  plain  of  white  and  limpid  water.  It  is  vast  but 
circumscribed;  in  shape  oblong  and  somewhat  circular,  it 
stretches  toward  the  winter  sunset.  From,  lofty  summits, 
majestic  chains  close  it  in  on  three  sides.  You  are  seated  on 
the  slope  of  the  mountain,  above  the  northern  strand  which  the 
waves  alternately  quit  and  then  recover.  Perpendicular  rocks 
are  behind  you.  They  rise  to  the  region  of  clouds.  The  sad 
polar  wind  has  never  breathed  upon  this  happy  shore.  At  your 
left  open  the  mountains:   a  tranquil  valley  stretches  along  their 


ETIENNE   PIVERT  DE  SENANCOUR  ^3^  ^3 

depths;  a  torrent  descending  from  snowy  summits  closes  it;  and 
when  the  morning  sun  shines  on  the  mists  between  the  frozen 
peaks,  when  voices  from  the  mountains  indicate  chalets  above 
the  meadows  still  in  shadow,  it  is  the  awakening  of  primitive 
earth, —  it   is  a   monument   of  our  destinies   ignored! 

Behold  the  first  nocturnal  moments,  the  hour  of  repose  and 
subhme  sadness.  The  valley  is  hazy,  it  begins  to  grow  dark. 
Toward  noon,  the  lake  is  in  night.  The  rocks  surrounding  it 
are  a  shadowy  belt  under  the  icy  dome  which  surmounts  them, 
and  which  seems  to  retain  the  dayhght  in  its  rime.  Its  last  fires 
gild  the  numerous  chestnut-trees  on  the  wild  rocks:  they  pass 
in  long  rays  under  the  lofty  spires  of  the  Alpine  pines,  they  bur- 
nish the  mountains,  they  illume  the  snows,  they  kindle  the  air; 
and  the  waveless  water,  glowing  with  light  and  blending  with  the 
heavens,  becomes  infinite  like  them,  and  still  purer,  more  ethe- 
real, more  beautiful.  Its  calm  astonishes,  its  limpidity  deceives, 
the  airy  splendor  it  reflects  seems  to  penetrate  its  depths;  and 
under  these  mountains,  separated  from  the  globe,  and  as  it  were 
suspended  in  space,  you  find  at  your  feet  the  emptiness  of  heaven 
and  the  immensity  of  the  world.  Then  there  is  a  time  of  illus- 
ion and  oblivion.  You  no  longer  know  where  the  sky  is,  where 
the  mountains  are,  nor  where  you  stand.  You  no  longer  find  a 
level;  there  is  no  longer  a  horizon.  Your  ideas  change,  your 
sensations  are  novel,  you  have  emerged  from  common  life.  And 
when  the  darkness  has  covered  this  valley  of  water,  when  the 
eye  no  longer  discerns  objects  or  distances,  when  the  evening 
wind  has  raised  the  waves, —  then  the  end  of  the  lake  toward 
the  sunset  is  illumined  by  a  pale  light,  but  all  that  the  mount- 
ains surround  is  only  an  indistinguishable  gulf.  And  in  the 
midst  of  darkness  and  silence,  you  hear,  a  thousand  feet  below, 
the  rhythmic  cadence  of  the  ceaseless  waves  which  tremble  on 
the  beach  at  regular  intervals,  are  swallowed  up  in  the  rocks,  and 
break  against  the  wall  with  a  sound  which  echoes  like  a  long 
murmur  in  the  invisible  abyss. 

It  is  in  sounds  that  nature  has  placed  the  strongest  expres- 
sion of  the  romantic  character.  Especially  by  the  sense  of  hear- 
ing we  receive  strongly,  and.  in  a  few  touches,  the  realization 
of  extraordinary  places  and  things.  Odors  produce  quick  and 
immense  but  vague  perceptions;  those  of  sight  seem  to  affect 
the  mind  rather  than  the  Vjeart:  we  admire  what  we  see,  but  we 
feel  what  we  hear.     The  voice  of  a  beloved  woman  is  still  more 


121 14  ETIENNE  PIVERT  DE   SENANCOUR 

beautiful  than  her  features.  The  sounds  which  render  places 
sublime  make  an  impression  profounder  and  more  durable  than 
is  created  by  their  forms.  I  have  never  seen  a  picture  of  the 
Alps  which  made  them  as  truly  present  to  me  as  the  Alpine  air 
itself. 

The  *  Ranz  des  Vaches  *  does  not  merely  recall  memories,  it 
paints.  I  know  that  Rousseau  has  said  the  contrary,  but  I  think 
he  was  mistaken.  This  is  not  an  imaginary  effect:  it  happened 
that  as  two  persons  were  glancing  over  the  *  Tableaux  Pitto- 
resques  de  la  Suisse  ^  [Picturesque  Views  of  Switzerland],  both 
said  at  sight  of  the  Grimsel,  "  There  is  the  spot  to  hear  the  *  Ranz 
des  Vaches.  *  '^  If  expressed  with  truth  rather  than  skill,  if  he 
who  plays  it  feels  it  deeply,  the  first  sounds  take  us  to  the  high 
valleys,  under  the  bare  reddish-gray  rocks,  under  the  cold  sky, 
under  the  burning  sun.  You  are  on  the  top  of  the  rounding 
summits  covered  with  pastures.  You  realize  the  slowness  of 
things,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  place.  There  is  the  slow  march 
of  the  cows  and  the  measured  movement  of  their  great  bells, 
near  the  clouds,  in  the  gently  sloping  stretch  from  the  crests  of 
immovable  granite  to  the  ruined  granite  of  the  snowy  ravines. 
The  winds  shiver  austerely  in  the  distant  larches;  you  discern  the 
rolling  of  a  torrent  in  the  precipices  where  it  has  been  excavat- 
ing for  long  centuries.  To  these  sounds  isolated  in  the  space, 
succeed  the  hurried  heavy  accents  of  the  kiilieren  [the  men  who 
lead  the  cows  to  the  high  pastures  and  care  for  them  there]; 
nomad  expression  of  a  pleasure  without  gayety, —  of  a  mountain 
joy.  The  songs  cease.  The  men  are  going  away;  the  bells  have 
passed  the  larches;  you  hear  nothing  but  the  shock  of  falling 
pebbles,  and  the  interrupted  fall  of  trees  pushed  toward  the  val- 
ley by  the  torrent.  The  wind  intensifies  or  holds  back  these 
Alpine  sounds;  and  when  you  lose  them,  all  seems  cold,  dead, 
and  motionless.  It  is  the  domain  of  the  man  who  feels  no  eager- 
ness. He  comes  out  from  under  the  broad  low  roof  which  is 
assured  against  tempests  by  heavy  stones.  If  the  sun  is  burning, 
if  the  wind  is  strong,  if  the  thunder  is  rolling  under  his  feet, 
he  does  not  know  it.  He  goes  where  the  cows  should  be:  they 
are  there.  He  calls  them:  they  gather  together,  they  approach 
one  after  another;  and  he  returns  with  the  same  slowness,  loaded 
with  the  milk  destined  for  the  plains  he  will  not  know.  The 
cows  stop;  they  chew  the  cud.  There  is  no  visible  movement, 
there   are   no   more   men.     The  air  is  cold,  the  wind  has  ceased 


fiTIENNE   PIVERT   DE   SENANCOUR  13 1 15 

with  the  evening  light;  there  remain  only  the  gleam  of  the 
ancient  snows  and  the  fall  of  waters,  the  wild  murmur  of  which, 
rising  from  the  depths,  seems  to  add  to  the  silent  permanence  of 
the  glaciers,  the  lofty  summits,  and  the  night. 


CONDITIONS  OF  HAPPINESS 
From  <  Obermann  > 

FONTAINEBLEAU,   AugUSt    7. 

MONSIEUR  W ,  whom  you  know,  said  lately:  "While  I  take 
my  cup  of  coffee  I  put  all  the  world  in  order.  *^  I  too 
permit  myself  similar  dreams;  and  when  I  walk  on  the 
heaths  among  the  junipers  still  wet,  I  sometimes  surprise  myself 
imagining  men  happy.  I  assure  you,  it  seems  to  me  they  might 
be.  I  do  not  wish  to  create  another  species  or  another  globe. 
I  do  not  wish  to  reform  everything.  Such  hypotheses  lead  to 
nothing,  you  will  say,  since  they  are  not  applicable  to  anything 
known.  Very  well:  let  us  take  what  necessarily  exists;  let  us 
take  it  as  it  is,  and  only  arrange  what  is  accidental  therein.  I 
do  not  desire  new  or  chimerical  species;  but  behold  my  materials, 
—  with  them   I  will  make  my  plan  according  to  my  thought. 

I  desire  two  things  certain:  a  fixed  climate,  true  men.  If  I 
knew  when  the  rain  would  cause  the  waters  to  overflow,  when 
the  sun  would  dry  up  my  plants,  when  the  hurricane  would  shake 
my  dwelling, —  my  industry  would  have  to  fight  against  the  nat- 
ural forces  opposed  to  my  needs;  but  when  I  am  ignorant  of  the 
moment  anything  will  happen,  when  the  evil  oppresses  me  with- 
out the  danger  having  warned  me,  when  prudence  may  destroy 
me,  and  when  the  interests  of  others  confided  to  my  precautions 
forbid  unconcern  and  even  security, —  is  it  not  necessary  that  my 
life  should  be  anxious  and  unhappy  ?  Is  it  not  true  that  inaction 
succeeds  forced  labor,  and  that,  as  Voltaire  has  so  well  said,  I 
consume  all  my  days  in  convulsions  of  disquiet  or  in  the  leth- 
argy of  weariness  ? 

If  men  nearly  all  dissimulate,  if  the  duplicity  of  a  part  forces 
others  at  least  to  be  reserved,  does  it  not  follow  necessarily  that 
they  augment  the  inevitable  harm  which  many  for  their  own  ben- 
efit do  to  others,  with  a  much  greater  mass  of  needless  injuries  ? 
Does  it  not  follow  that  people  harm  each  other  reciprocally  in 
spite    of    themselves,   that   each    is   eying    the    other,   that   each    is 


I3II6 


ETIENNE   PIVERT   DE   SENANCOUR 


prejudiced,  that  enemies  are  inventive  and  friends  are  cautious  ? 
Does  it  not  follow  that  an  honest  man  is  ruined  in  public  opinion 
by  an  indiscreet  suggestion,  by  a  false  judgment;  that  an  enmity 
born  of  an  ill-founded  suspicion  becomes  mortal;  that  those  who 
would  have  liked  to  do  right  are  discouraged ;  that  false  princi- 
ples are  established;  that  cunning  is  more  useful  than  wisdom, 
courage,  magnanimity;  that  children  reproach  their  father  for  not 
having  committed  a  trickery,  and  that  States  perish  from  not 
committing  a  crime  ?  In  this  perpetual  uncertainty,  I  ask  what 
becomes  of  morality;  and  in  the  uncertainty  of  all  things,  what 
becomes  of  surety  ?  Without  surety,  without  morality,  I  ask  if 
happiness  is  not  a  child's  dream  ? 

The  moment  of  death  should  remain  unknown.  There  is  no 
evil  without  duration;  and  for  twenty  other  reasons  death  should 
not  be  put  in  the  number  of  misfortunes.  It  is  well  to  ignore 
when  all  must  finish:  one  rarely  begins  what  may  not  be  con- 
cluded. I  think  then  that  with  man  about  what  he  is,  ignorance 
as  to  the  length  of  life  is  more  useful  than  embarrassing;  but  the 
uncertainty  of  the  things  of  life  is  not  like  that  of  their  duration. 
An  incident  that  you  could  not  foresee  deranges  your  plan,  and 
prepares  you  long  vexations.  As  for  death,  it  annihilates  your 
plan,  it  does  not  derange  it:  you  will  not  suffer  from  what  you 
do  not  know.  The  plan  of  those  who  remain  may  be  thwarted, 
but  to  be  certain  about  one's  own  affairs  is  to  have  certainty 
enough;  and  I  do  not  wish  to  imagine  things  altogether  good 
according  to  man.  I  should  doubt  the  world  I  am  arranging  if 
it  did  not  contain  more  evil,  and  I  cannot  suppose  perfect  har- 
mony except  with  a  kind  of  fright.  It  seems  to  me  that  nature 
does  not  admit  of  it. 

A  fixed  climate,  and  above  all,  men  who  are  true,  inevitably 
true, —  these  suffice  me.  I  am  happy  if  I  understand  things.  I 
leave  to  the  sky  its  storms  and  thunderbolts;  to  the  earth  its  wet 
and  dry;  to  the  soil  its  sterility;  to  our  bodies  their  weakness 
and  degeneration;  to  men  their  differences,  and  incompatibilities, 
their  inconstancy,  their  errors,  even  their  vices  and  their  necessary 
egoism;  to  time  its  slowness  and  irrevocability:  my  city  is  happy 
if  everything  is  ruled,  if  thoughts  are  known.  It  needs  only  a 
good  legislation;  and  if  thoughts  are  known,  it  cannot  fail  to  have 
one. 


ETIENNE   PIVERT  DE  SENANCOUR  13117 

OBERMANN'S   ISOLATION 
From  <  Obermann  > 

I    WISH  I  had  a  trade:  it  would  animate  my  arms  and  tranquil- 
lize   my   head.     A    talent   would   not   do   this;    yet   if  I    knew 
how  to  paint,  I  think  I  should  be  less  unquiet.     I  have  long 
been  in  a  stupor;    I    am  sorry  to  have  waked.      I  was  in  a  de- 
pression more  tranquil  than  actual  depression. 

Of  all  the  rapid  and  uncertain  moments  when  I  have  thought 
in  my  simplicity  that  one  was  on  this  earth  to  live,  none  have 
left  me  such  profound  remembrances  as  those  twenty  days  of 
forgetfulness  and  hope,  when,  about  the  period  of  the  March 
equinox,  near  the  torrent  before  the  rocks,  between  the  ha'ppy 
hyacinth  and  the  simple  violet,  I  imagined  it  would  be  given  me 
to  love. 

I  was  touching  what  I  could  never  seize.  Without  inclina- 
tions, without  hope,  I  might  have  been  able  to  vegetate,  bored 
but  tranquil.  I  had  a  presentiment  of  human  energy,  but  in 
my  shadowy  life  I  endured  my  sleep.  What  sinister  force  opened 
the  world  to  me,  and  thus  removed  the  consolations  of  nothing- 
ness ? 

Drawn  into  an  expansive  activity,  eager  to  love  all,  to  sustain 
all,  to  console  all;  ever  struggling  between  a  need  of  seeing 
a  change  in  many  sad  things  and  a  conviction  that  no  change 
will  occur, —  I  am  wearied  with  the  evils  of  life,  and  still  more 
indignant  at  the  perfidious  seduction  of  pleasure;  my  eyes  always 
arrested  by  the  immense  heap  of  hatreds,  iniquities,  opprobriums, 
and  miseries  upon  this  misguided  earth. 

And  I!  I  am  in  my  twenty-seventh  year:  the  fine  days  are 
over,  I  did  not  even  see  them.  Unhappy  in  the  age  of  happi- 
ness, what  can  I  expect  of  other  ages  ?  I  spent  in  emptiness  and 
weariness  the  happy  season  of  confidence  and  hope.  Everywhere 
oppressed,  suffering,  my  heart  empty  and  torn,  I  have  attained 
while  still  young  the  regrets  of  old  age.  Accustomed  to  see  all 
the  flowers  of  life  shrivel  under  my  sterile  steps,  I  am  like  those 
old  men  from  whom  everything  has  escaped;  but  more  unhappy 
than  they,  I  have  lost  all  long  before  my  own  end.  With  my 
ardent  spirit  I  cannot  rest  in  this  silence  of  death.     .     .     . 

What  places  were  ever  to  me  what  they  are  to  other  men  ? 
What  times  were  tolerable,  and  under  what  skies  did  I  find 
repose  of  heart?  I  have  seen  the  stir  of  towns,  the  emptiness  of 
country  places,  and  the  austerity  of  mountains.      I  have  seen  the 


i^iiS  fiTIENNE   PIVERT   DE   SENANCOUR 

grossness  of  ignorance  and  the  torment  of  the  arts.  I  have  seen 
the  useless  virtues,  the  indifferent  successes,  and  all  good  things 
lost  in  evil  things;  man  and  fate  always  unequal,  ceaselessly- 
deceiving  themselves;  and  in  the  mad  struggle  of  all  the  pas- 
sions, the  odious  conqueror  receiving  as  price  of  his  triumph  the 
heaviest  link  of  the  ills  it  has  caused. 

If  man  were  adapted  to  unhappiness,  I  should  pity  hirn  far 
less;  and  considering  his  transitory  duration,  I  should  despise  for 
him  as  for  myself  the  torment  of  a  day.  But  all  good  things  sur- 
round him ;  all  his  faculties  bid  him  enjoy,  all  say  to  him,  "  Be 
happy  ** :  and  man  has  said,  ^*  Happiness  shall  be  for  the  brute : 
art,  science,  glory,  grandeur,  shall  be  for  me.'*  His  mortality,  his 
griefs,  his  crimes  themselves,  are  but  the  slightest  part  of  his 
wretchedness.  I  deplore  his  losses, — calm,  choice,  union,  tran- 
quil possession.  I  deplore  a  hundred  years  that  millions  of  sen- 
tient beings  have  wasted  in  anxiety  and  restrictions,  in  the  midst 
of  what  would  make  security,  liberty,  joy;  living  with  bitterness 
upon  a  voluptuous  earth,  because  they  have  desired  imaginary 
and    exclusive  good  things. 

However,  all  that  amounts  to  very  little.  I  did  not  witness  it 
half  a  century  ago,  and  in  half  a  century  more  I  shall  see  it  no 
longer. 

I  said  to  myself:  If  it  was  not  part  of  my  destiny  to  recall 
to  primordial  morals  an  isolated  circumscribed  land,  if  I  ought  to 
force  myself  to  forget  the  world,  and  think  myself  happy  enough 
in  obtaining  tolerable  days  upon  this  deluded  earth, —  then  I 
would  ask  but  one  favor,  one  spirit  in  that  dream  from  which  I  no 
longer  wish  to  awaken.  There  rests  upon  earth,  such  as  it  is,  an 
illusion  which  can  still  deceive  me ;  it  is  the  only  one.  I  would 
have  the  wisdom  to  be  deceived  by  it:  the  rest  is  not  worth  an 
effort.  This  is  what  I  said  then;  but  chance  alone  could  grant 
me  the  inestimable  mistake.  Chance  is  slow  and  uncertain :  life 
rapid  and  irrevocable,  its  springtime  passes;  and  this  unsatisfied 
craving,  by  wasting  my  life,  must  finally  alienate  my  heart  and 
change  my  nature.  Sometimes  already  I  feel  myself  growing  sour: 
I  become  angry,  my  affections  narrow;  impatience  makes  my  will 
fierce,  and  a  kind  of  contempt  bears  me  toward  great  but  aus- 
tere designs.  However,  this  bitterness  does  not  endure  in  all  its 
force:  afterward  I  abandon  myself  as  if  I  felt  that  distracted 
men,  and  uncertain  things,  and  my  life  so  short,  did  not  merit  a 
day's  uneasiness,  and  that  a  severe  awakening  is  useless  when 
one  must  soon  sleep  forever. 


I3II9 


^. 


SENECA 

(About  4  B.  C.-65  A.  D.) 

JHE  greatest  of  Christian  evangelists  was  haunted  by  the  awfvil 
dread  lest,  while  he  pointed  out  to  others  the  path  to  bliss, 
he  himself  << should  become  a  castaway.'^  The  most  fluent, 
tolerant,  and  persuasive  of  Roman  ethical  teachers,  Seneca,  demon- 
strated by  his  tragic  failure  in  the  trying  crises  of  his  life,  how  hard 
it  was  to  be  brave,  consistent,  or  even  free  from  crime,  under  the 
mad  despotism  of  a  Caligula,  a  Claudius,  and  a  Nero. 

At  Cordova  there  is  still  shown  a  ruined  villa  bearing  by  tradition 
the  name  "House  of  Seneca.'*  In  Spain,  then,  the  native  land  of  so 
many  Roman  scholars  and  authors,  the  great  philosopher's  father 
was  born.  The  race  was  already  wealthy,  and  enjoyed  the  privileges 
of  Roman  knighthood.  The  father  was  at  least  a  devoted  amateur 
student  of  rhetoric,  and  endowed  with  a  memory  as  phenomenal  as 
Macaulay's.  After  once  hearing  a  speech  of  several  thousand  words, 
he  could  easily  repeat  it  verbatim.  He  knew  the  world-city  well,  for 
he  had  repeatedly  heard  all  the  orators  and  pleaders  since  Cicero. 
Still,  especially  after  his  rather  late  marriage,  he  seems  to  have  pre- 
ferred more  and  more  the  security  and  quiet  of  his  estates  in  Spain. 

The  two  books  by  the  elder  Seneca  of  which  we  hear,  were  prob- 
ably both  undertaken  largely  for  the  education  of  his  three  sons. 
His  history  of  the  civil  wars  and  the  early  empire  is  wholly  lost. 
We  are  told  that  in  a  general  preface  he  compared  the  earlier  epochs 
in  the  development  of  the  State  to  the  stages  of  human  life.  This 
comparison  itself  has  a  certain  pedagogical  sound.  His  other  work, 
extant  in  a  fragmentary  form,  is  chiefly  made  up  of  quotations  from 
the  noted  rhetoricians  he  had  heard,  taking  both  sides  in  a  series  of 
very  academic  Adversarue,  or  subjects  for  debate,  such  as  — « Should 
Leonidas  retreat  from  Thermopylae  ?  >>  « Should  Cicero  beg  his  life 
from  Antony ?»  etc.,  etc.  In  his  prefaces  to  the  various  books  the 
elder  Seneca  shows  a  pleasing  wit,  an  unexpectedly  pure  Latin  style, 
—  and  his  prodigious  memory. 

The  three  sons  already  mentioned  are  memorable  for  very  differ- 
ent reasons.  The  youngest,  Mela,  was  merely  the  father  of  the  poet 
Lucan,  whose  brief  life  ended  in  utter  ignominy  and  cowardice,  drag- 
ging his  parents  down  with  him. 

The  eldest  of  the  trio  was  adopted  by  his  father's  friend  Gallio. 
Under  that  name  he  has  enjoyed  an  unwelcome  fame  among  Christians, 


13120    '  SENECA 

as  the  Roman  governor  of  Greece  who  ^*  cared  for  none  of  these 
things*  (Acts,  xviii.  12-17).  As  to  the  strife  between  the  old  Hebrew 
Paul  of  Tarsus  and  his  fellow  Jews,  or  even  as  to  street  brawls  in 
Corinth,  though  the  Greeks  mobbed  and  beat  the  Israelitish  high  priest 
before  the  very  judgment-seat  of  the  Praetor,  Gallio  of  course  main- 
tained the  indifference  and  contempt  shown  by  the  typical  Roman 
aristocrat  toward  all  quarrels  among  the  subject  races  of  the  empire. 
Canon  Farrar  reminds  us  effectively  how  trifling  and  soon  forgotten 
this  incident  was  to  the  man  who  was  destined  to  be  remembered 
chiefly  thereby,  and  not  by  his  famous  brother's  loving  words :  "  No 
mortal  was  ever  so  sweet  {dulcis)  to  any  one  as  he  was  to  all  men." 

The  greatest  man  of  the  race,  however, —  the  most  brilliant  lit- 
erary figure  of  three  imperial  reigns, —  was  the  second  son,  Lucius 
Annseus  Seneca,  like  his  father  a  native  of  Corduba.  Born  shortly 
before  the  Christian  era,  and  always  of  a  delicate  and  sickly  constitu- 
tion, he  devoted  himself,  not  like  his  kinsmen  chiefly  to  rhetoric,  but 
rather  to  philosophy.  The  Stoic  school  was  far  more  sympathetic  to 
Roman  character  than  its  only  powerful  rival,  the  sect  of  Epicurus. 
With  these  devotees  to  duty  rather  than  to  pleasure  as  the  chief  end 
of  life,  Seneca  associated  himself.  He  also  had  a  strong  regard  for 
the  Cynics,  whose  school  may  be  regarded  as  the  superlative  degree  — 
or  as  the  reductio  ad  absurdum  —  of  Stoicism.  But  it  is  a  pleasing 
trait  in  this  genial  and  tolerant  nature,  that  he  saw  too  how  nearly 
Epicurus  himself  and  his  austerest  followers  had  arrived  by  a  dif- 
ferent road  at  the  same  ethical  goal.  Indeed,  in  Rome  at  any  rate, 
such  commonplaces  as  the  uncertainty  of  all  prosperity,  or  the  duty 
of  meeting  calamity  with  fortitude,  needed  in  those  evil  days  no 
instiller  save  the  demoniacal  caprice  of  ^*  Caesar,"  and  the  insatiate 
cruelty  and  greed  of  countless  satellites,  informers,  and  spies. 

Such  lessons  Seneca  has  left  us  in  a  hundred  sermons, —  under 
which  general  title  we  may  include  nearly  all  his  epistles,  the 
avowed  essays,  and  the  ^*  dialogues, "  which  narrow  to  monologues  as 
inevitably  as  a  Ciceronian  treatise  or  a  poem  of  Wordsworth.  The 
themes  are  few,  and  not  often  new;  the  illustrations,  epigrams, 
tropes,  disguise  the  monotony  and  obviousness  of  the  thought.  As 
Quintilian  sternly  says,  the  style  is  an  essentially  vicious  one,  and 
doubly  dangerous  because  its  errors  are  clothed  in-  brilliant  beauty. 
The  tendency  of  Seneca  is  constantly  to  put  manner  above  matter, 
to  hide  familiar  and  undisputed  truth  under  striking  and  picturesque 
ornament. 

This  advocate  of  contented  poverty  was  the  wealthiest  and  most 
profuse  of  courtiers.  He  assured  his  disciples  that  contentment  abides 
only  in  the  huts  of  humility, —  and  entertained  them  at  five  hundred 
splendid  tables  of  cedar   and  ivory.     Such   inconsistency,  indeed,  he 


SENECA  13121 

frankly  confesses;  bidding  us  follow  rather  his  aspirations  and  future 
intentions  than  his  present  example. 

The  very  prominence  of  Seneca's  position  exposed  him  to  yet 
more  deadly  perils  and  temptations.  His  youthful  successes  as  an 
advocate  exposed  him  to  the  dangerous  jealousy  of  Caligula,  who 
was  only  mollified  by  the  assurance  that  the  feeble  consumptive  was 
already  at  death's  door.  Promptly  banished  by  the  next  emperor, 
Claudius,  Seneca  for  eight  years  (41-49  A.  D.)  languished  an  exile  in 
Corsica.  Thence  he  addressed  to  the  dissolute  freedman  Polybius, 
favorite  of  the  half-witted  tyrant  Claudius,  the  most  fulsome  flatteries 
intended  for  the  ears  of  both.  One  of  the  great  philosophic  treat- 
f  ises  *  On  Consolation  *  is  nominally  written  to  condole  with  this  arch- 
villain  upon  the  death  of  a  brother.  The  long-prayed-for  return  to 
Rome  came  at  last  through  the  infamous  Agrippina,  when  she  had 
destroyed  her  imperial  rival,  and  begun  her  lifelong  machinations 
for  the  advancement  of  her  ungrateful  son,  the  future  emperor  Nero. 
Of  this  precocious  monster  Seneca  became  the  guardian  or  tutor. 
Whether  the  sage  connived  at  the  murder  of  the  emperor  Claudius 
(54  A.  D.),  is  an  insoluble  problem  of  court  scandal.  He  did  not 
denounce  the  guilty,  and  he  shared  the  fruits  of  the  crime.  He 
even  composed  and  read,  to  amuse  his  pupil  and  the  guilty  queen 
mother,  a  heartless  and  irreverent  account  of  Claudius's  reception 
and  condemnation  in  the  world  of  the  dead.  This  is  the  same  Clau- 
dius who  was  so  extolled  and  flattered  in  the  '■  De  Consolatione  ad 
Polybium  ^ ! 

Nero  in  the  first  five  years  of  his  reign  gave  some  promise  of 
statesmanlike  development  and  a  juster  balance  of  character.  Doubt- 
less for  the  best  acts  of  this  period  his  mentor  deserves  the  chief 
credit.  While  his  fellow  guardian,  the  sturdy  Burrus,  lived  to  con- 
trol the  turbulent  praetorian  guards,  Seneca  was  as  secure  in  his 
position  as  he  can  be  who  draws  his  breath  by  the  permission  of  a 
young  tyrant  with  madness  in  his  blood,  bred  to  folly  and  self- 
indvilgence.  The  culminating  horror  in  Nero's  lurid  reign  is  of  course 
the  monarch's  assassination  of  his  own  mother,  whose  worst  crimes 
had  been  committed  in  the  son's  interest.  After  condoning  at  least, 
and  justifying  as  a  political  necessity,  this  awful  deed,  Seneca  himself 
must  have  felt  that  his  pulpit  should  be  vacated.  He  soon  realized 
that  his  only  hope  of  life  was  in  the  abdication  of  all  authority,  the 
*'  voluntary  '^  proffer  of  his  wealth  to  the  young  emperor,  and  a 
prompt  retirement  to  Cordova  or  some  equally  remote  retreat.  Even 
this  path  he  found  blocked.  Accused  of  treason,  he  was  commanded 
to  put  an  end  to  his  own  life.  Thus  set  face  to  face  with  the 
inevitable,  Seneca  offered  the  usual  example  of  a  philosophic  death 
(an  example,  by  the  way,  which  his  pupil  Nero,  almost  alone  among 


12 1 22  SENECA 

eminent  Romans,  failed  to  follow).  This  was  in  65  A.  D.  His  wife 
attempted  to  share  his  fate,  and  was  rescued  against  her  will. 

There  are  numberless  pleasing  traits  in  Seneca's  character.  In- 
deed, it  is  much  the  same  here  as  with  his  literary  style.  The  cen- 
tral motive  we  may  be  forced  to  condemn,  yet  a  hundred  charming 
touches  .  lend  to  it  a  dangerous  attractiveness.  He  loved  power, 
wealth,  glory;  and  to  them  sacrificed  his  own  approval  and  his  after 
fame.  But  he  was  faithful  to  all  the  ties  of  human  friendship,  in  a 
century  when  betrayal  and  ghastly  selfishness  were  inbred  in  most 
men.  Especially  in  his  love  for  children,  and  his  delight  in  them,  he 
is  almost  un-Roman.  In  many  of  his  educational  and  social  doctrines 
he  is  surprisingly  in  advance  of  his  age.  And  after  all,  the  errors  of 
his  life  are  largely  inferred  rather  than  proven, —  and  certainly  have 
long  since  ceased  to  do  harm.  Many  of  his  ethical  doctrines  are  of 
so  lofty  a  nature  that  he  has  actually  been  recognized  by  popes  and 
councils  as  at  least  in  part  an  authority  for  Christian  doctrine. 

Perhaps  to  the  same  cause  we  may  attribute  the  well-invented  but 
baseless  legend  that  Seneca  was  in  correspondence,  and  even  on 
terms  of  personal  friendship,  with  the  apostle  Paul,  during  his  two 
years'  imprisonment  in  Rome.  Seneca,  like  the  other  Romans  of  his 
day,  made  no  distinction  between  the  Christians  and  the  other  sects 
of  the  ^*most  detestable'^  Jews.  Indeed,  he  never  mentions  the  new 
sect  by  name.  When  Seneca's  brother  Gallio  refused  to  hear  Paul 
speak  in  his  own  defense,  the  opportunity  for  personal  influence  of 
the  great  apostle  upon  that  gifted  and  haughty  family  undoubtedly 
passed  by  forever. 

Most  of  Seneca's  prose  works  we  have  already  characterized. 
There  is  indeed  one  series  of  essays,  in  which  he  attempts  to  dis- 
cuss the  laws  and  phenomena  of  the  physical  world.  Based  of  course 
upon  the  Ptolemaic  system,  these  books  had  much  influence  through- 
out the  Middle  Ages,  but  have  become  mere  curiosities  in  the  broader 
daylight  of  modern  science. 

The  mocking  satire  upon  the  dead  Claudius  is  written  partly  in 
prose  and  partly  in  verse;  and  so  may  be  classed  as  an  example  of 
«  Menippean  >>  satire.  Most  of  Seneca's  other  poetic  productions  have 
perished. 

An  important  exception  to  the  last  statement  must  probably  be 
made,  in  that  ten  tragedies  have  been  handed  down  to  us  under  his 
name.  Composed  long  after  the  decay  of  drama,  rhetorical  and 
bombastic,  unsuited  to  our  ideas  of  scenic  effect,  these  have  neverthe- 
less an  extreme  interest  and  importance,  as  the  only  specimens  of 
serious  Roman  drama  still  extant.  They  were  highly  esteemed  during 
the  Renaissance,  and  exercised  considerable  influence  on  the  revival  of 
European  tragedy  in  general  and  of  English  tragedy  in  particular.    See 


SENECA  13 123 

J.  W.  Cunliffe's  (The  Influence  of  Seneca  on  Elizabethan  Tragedy) 
(1893)  and  his  (Early  English  Classical  Tragedies)  (1912).  Probably 
only  seven  of  the  tragedies  are  Seneca's,  but  all  ten  passed  with  the 
Elizabethans  as  his,  and  were  well  known  to  them,  both  in  the  original 
and  in  translation. 

There  are  excellent  texts  of  the  prose  works  of  Seneca  in  Latin  pub- 
lished in  Leipzig  —  of  the  larger  works  by  Haase  (1893-5)  ^.nd  Hosius 
(1899);  of  the  Epistles  by  Henze  (1898);  of  the  Quaestiones  Naturales 
by  Gercke  (1907).  Of  the  Tragedies  there  is  an  older  text  by  Peiper 
and  Richter,  and  a  more  recent  one  by  Leo,  in  the  Teubner  series.  There 
is  a  translation  by  Holtze  in  the  Tauchnitz  German  Series.  The  English 
versions  exhibit  an  astonishing  gap  after  the  Elizabethan  translation 
mentioned  above;  it  had  no  successor  until  early  in  the  twentieth  century, 
when  a  prose  version  by  "Watson  Bradshaw  was  published  in  London 
(1902).  This  was  quickly  followed  by  verse  translations  by  Ella  Isabel 
Harris  (Yale,  1904)  and  Frank  Justus  Miller  (Chicago,  1907).  There  is  a 
good  English  translation  of  the  Quaestiones  Naturales  by  John  Clarke 
(19 10)  but  no  adequate  rendering  of  the  prose  works  as  a  whole. 


TIME    WASTED 

IN  THE  distribution  of  human  life,  we  find  that  a  great  part  of 
it  passes  away  in  evil-doing,  a  greater  yet  in  doing  just 
nothing  at  all,  and  in  effect,  the  whole  in  doing  things  beside 
our  business.  Some  hours  we  bestow  upon  ceremony  and  servile 
attendance,  some  upon  our  pleasures,  and  the  remainder  runs  to 
waste.  What  a  deal  of  time  is  it  that  we  spend  in  hopes  and 
fears,  love  and  revenge;  in  balls,  treats,  making  of  interests, 
suing  for  offices,  soliciting  of  causes,  and  slavish  flatteries!  The 
shortness  of  lifie,  I  know,  is  the  common  complaint  both  of  fools 
and  philosophers, —  as  if  the  time  we  have  were  not  sufBcient  for 
our  duties.  But  it  is  with  our  lives  as  with  our  estates  —  a  good 
husband  makes  a  little  go  a  great  way;  whereas,  let  the  reve- 
nue of  a  prince  fall  into  the  hand  of  a  prodigal,  it  is  gone  in  a 
moment.  So  that  the  time  allotted  us,  if  it  were  well  employed, 
were  abundantly  enough  to  answer  all  the  ends  and  purposes  of 
mankind;  but  we  squander  it  away  in  avarice,  drink,  sleep,  lux- 
ury, ambition,  fawning  addresses,  envy,  rambling  voyages,  imper- 
tinent studies,  change  of  councils,  and  the  like:  and  when  our 
portion  is  spent  we  find  the  want  of  it,  though  we  give  no  heed 
to  it  in  the  passage ;  insomuch  that  we  have  rather  made  our  life 
short  than  found  it  so.     You  shall  have   some  people  perpetually 


131 24  SENECA 

playing  with  their  fingers,  whistling,  humming,  and  talking  to 
themselves;  and  others  consume  their  days  in  the  composing, 
hearing,  or  reciting  of  songs  and  lampoons.  How  many  precious 
mornings  do  we  spend  in  consultation  with  barbers,  tailors,  and 
tire-women,  patching  and  painting  betwixt  the  comb  and  the 
glass  ?  A  council  must  be  called  upon  every  hair  we  cut,  and 
one  curl  amiss  is  as  much  as  a  body's  life  is  worth.  The  truth 
is,  we  are  more  solicitous  about  our  dress  than  our  manners,  and 
about  the  order  of  our  periwigs  than  that  of  the  government. 
At  this  rate  let  us  but  discount,  out  of  a  life  of  a  hundred  years, 
that  time  which  has  been  spent  upon  popular  negotiations,  frivo- 
lous amours,  domestic  brawls,  saunterings  up  and  down  to  no 
purpose,  diseases  that  we  have  brought  upon  ourselves, —  and  this 
large  extent  of  life  will  not  amount,  perhaps,  to  the  minority 
of  another  man.  It  is  a  long  being,  but  perchance  a  short  life. 
And  what  is  the  reason  of  all  this  ?  We  live  as  if  we  should 
never  die,  and  without  any  thought  of  human  frailty;  when  yet 
the  very  moment  we  bestow  upon  this  man  or  thing  may  per- 
adventure  be  our  last. 

Paraphrased  from  Seneca  by  Sir  Roger  L' Estrange. 


INDEPENDENCE    IN    ACTION 

ALL  men,  brother  Gallio,  wish  to  live  happily,  but  are  dull  at 
perceiving  exactly  what  it  is  that  makes  life  happy:  and  so 
far  is  it  from  being  easy  to  attain  to  happiness,  that  the 
more  eagerly  a  man  struggles  to  reach  it,  the  further  he  departs 
from  it,  if  he  takes  the  wrong  road;  for  since  this  leads  in  the 
opposite  direction,  his  very  swiftness  carries  him  all  the  further 
away.  We  must  therefore  define  clearly  what  it  is  at  which  we 
aim;  next  we  must  consider  by  what  path  we  may  most  speedily 
reach  it:  for  on  our  journey  itself,  provided  it  be  made  in  the 
right  direction,  we  shall  learn  how  much  progress  we  have  made 
each  day,  and  how  much  nearer  we  are  to  the  goal  towards 
which  our  natural  desires  urge  us.  But  as  long  as  we  wander  at 
random,  not  following  any  guide  except  the  shouts  and  discordant 
clamors  of  those  who  invite  us  to  proceed  in  different  directions, 
our  short  life  will  be  wasted  in  useless  roamings,  even  if  we 
labor  both  day  and  night  to  get  a  good  understanding.  Let  us 
not  therefore  decide   whither  we  must  tend,   and   by  what  path, 


SENECA  13125 

without  the  advice  of  some  experienced  person,  who  has  explored 
the  region  which  we  are  about  to  enter:  because  this  journey  is 
not  subject  to  the  same  conditions  as  others;  for  in  them  some 
distinctly  understood  track  and  inquiries  made  of  the  natives 
make  it  impossible  for  us  to  go  wrong,  but  here  the  most  beaten 
and  frequented  tracks  are  those  which  lead  us  most  astray.  Noth- 
ing, therefore,  is  more  important  than  that  we  should  not,  like 
sheep,  follow  the  flock  that  has  gone  before  us,  and  thus  proceed 
not  whither  we  ought,  but  whither  the  rest  are  going.  . 


PRAISES    OF   THE   RIVAL   SCHOOL   IN   PHILOSOPHY 

MEN  are  not  encouraged  by  Epicurus  to  run  riot;  but  the 
vicious  hide  their  excesses  in  the  lap  of  philosophy,  and 
flock  to  the  schools  in  which  they  hear  the  praises  of 
pleasure.  They  do  not  consider  how  sober  and  temperate  —  for 
so,  by  Hercules,  I  believe  it  to  be  —  that  ^* pleasure*^  of  Epicurus 
is;  but  they  rush  at  his  mere  name,  seeking  to  obtain  some 
protection  and  cloak  for  their  vices.  They  lose,  therefore,  the 
one  virtue  which  their  evil  life  possessed, — that  of  being  asham.ed 
of  doing  wrong;  for  they  praise  what  they  used  to  blush  at,  and 
boast  of  their  vices.  Thus  modesty  can  never  reassert  itself,  when 
shameful  idleness  is  dignified  with  an  honorable  name.  The  rea- 
son why  that  praise  which  your  school  lavishes  upon  pleasure  is 
so  hurtful,  is  because  the  honorable  part  of  its  teaching  passes 
unnoticed,  but  the  degrading  part  is  seen  by  all. 

I  myself  believe,  though  my  Stoic  comrades  would  be  unwill- 
ing to  hear  me  say  so,  that  the  teaching  of  Epicurus  was  upright 
and  holy,  and  even,  if  you  examine  it  narrowly,  stern;  for  this 
much-talked-of  pleasure  is  reduced  to  a  very  narrow  compass, 
and  he  bids  pleasure  submit  to  the  same  law  which  we  bid' virtue 
do, —  I  mean,  to  obey  nature.  Luxury,  however,  is  not  satisfied 
with  what  is  enough  for  nature.  What  is  the  consequence  ? 
Whoever  thinks  that  happiness  consists  in  lazy  sloth  and  alter- 
nations of  gluttony  and  profligacy,  requires  a  good  patron  for  a 
bad  action;  and  when  he  has  become  an  Epicurean,  having  been 
led  to  do  so  by  the  attractive  name  of  that  school,  he  follows,  not 
the  pleasure  which  he  there  hears  spoken  of,  but  that  which  he 
brought  thither  with  him;  and  having  learned  to  think  that  his 
vices  coincide  with  the  maxims  of  that  philosophy,  he  indulges  in 


13126 


SENECA 


them  no  longer  timidly  and  in  dark  corners,  but  boldly  in  the  face 
of  day.  I  will  not,  therefore,  like  most  of  our  school,  say  that 
the  sect  of  Epicurus  is  the  teacher  of  crime;  but  what  I  say  is, 
it  is  ill  spoken  of,  it  has  a  bad  reputation,  and  yet  it  does  not 
deserve  it. 


INCONSISTENCY 

IF  ANY  one  of  those  dogs  who  yelp  at  philosophy  were  to  say, 
as  they  are   wont  to   do :  — "  Why  then  do  you  talk  so  much 

more  bravely  than  you  live  ?  why  do  you  check  your  words 
in  the  presence  of  your  superiors,  and  consider  money  to  be  a 
necessary  implement  ?  why  are  you  disturbed  when  you  sustain 
losses,  and  weep  on  hearing  of  the  death  of  your  wife  or  your 
friend  ?  why  do  you  pay  regard  to  common  rumor,  and  feel  an- 
noyed by  calumnious  gossip  ?  why  is  your  estate  more  elaborately 
kept  than  its  natural  use  requires  ?  why  do  you  not  dine  accord- 
ing to  your  own  maxims  ?  why  is  your  furniture  smarter  than  it 
need  be  ?  why  do  you  drink  wine  that  is  older  than  yourself  ? 
why  are  your  grounds  laid  out  ?  why  do  you  plant  trees  which 
afford  nothing  except  shade  ?  why  does  your  wife  wear  in  her 
ears  the  price  of  a  rich  man's  house  ?  why  are  your  children  at 
school  dressed  in  costly  clothes  ?  why  is  it  a  science  to  wait  upon 
you  at  table  ?  why  is  your  silver  plate  not  set  down  anyhow  or 
at  random,  but  skillfully  disposed  in  regular  order,  with  a  super- 
intendent to  preside  over  the  carving  of  the  viands  ? "  Add  to 
this,  if  you  like,  the  questions:  —  "Why  do  you  own  property 
beyond  the  seas  ?  why  do  you  own  more  than  you  know  of  ?  —  it  is 
a  shame  to  you  not  to  know  your  slaves  by  sight;  for  you  must 
be  very  neglectful  of  them  if  you  only  own  a  few,  or  very  extrav- 
agant if  you  have  too  many  for  your  "memory  to  retain.  ^^  I  will 
add  some  reproaches  afterwards,  and  will  bring  more  accusations 
against  myself  than  you  think  of;  for  the  present  I  will  make  you 
the  following  answer:  — 

**  I  am  not  a  wise  man,  and  I  will  not  be  one  in  order  to  feed 
your  spite;  so  do  not  require  me  to  be  on  a  level  with  the  best 
of  men,  but  merely  to  be  better  than  the  worst:  I  am  satisfied 
if  every  day  I  take  away  something  from  my  vices  and  correct 
my  faults.  I  have  not  arrived  at  perfect  soundness  of  mind; 
indeed,  I  never  shall  arrive  at  it:    I  compound  palliatives  rather 


SENECA  13 1 27 

than  remedies  for  my  gout,  nnd  am  satisfied  if  it  comes  at  rarer 
intervals  and  does  not  shoot  so  painfully.  Compared  with  your 
feet,  which  are  lame,  I  am  a  racer.'*  I  make  this  speech,  not  on 
my  own  behalf, —  for  I  am  steeped  in  vices  of  every  kind, —  but 
on  behalf  of  one  who  has  made  some  progress  in  virtue. 

**  You  talk  one  way/^  objects  our  adversary,  "and  live  an- 
other.** You  most  spiteful  of  creatures,  you  who  always  show 
the  bitterest  hatred  to  the  best  of  men,  this  reproach  was  flung 
at  Plato,  at  Epicurus,  at  Zeno;  for  all  these  declared  how  they 
ought  to  live,  not  how  they  did  live.  I  speak  of  virtue,  not 
of  myself;  and  when  I  blame  vices,  I  blame  my  own  first  of 
all:  when  I  have  the  power,  I  shall  live  as  I  ought  to  do:  spite, 
however  deeply  steeped  in  venom,  shall  not  keep  me  back  from 
what  is  best;  that  poison  itself  with  which  you  bespatter  oth- 
ers, with  which  you  choke  yourselves,  shall  not  hinder  me  from 
continuing  to  praise  that  life  which  I  do  not  indeed  lead,  but 
which  I  know  I  ought  to  lead,' — from  loving  virtue  and  from  fol- 
lowing after  her,  albeit  a  long  way  behind  her  and  with  halting 
gait. 


ON   LEISURE   (OTIUM) 

WITH  leisure  we  can  carry  out  that  which  we  have  once  for 
all  decided  to  be  best,  when  there  is  no  one  to  interfere 
with  us,  and  with  the  help  of  the  mob  pervert  our  as 
yet  feeble  judgment;  with  leisure  only  can  life,  which  we  dis- 
tract by  aiming  at  the  most  incompatible  objects,  flow  on  in  a 
single  gentle  stream.  Indeed,  the  worst  of  our  various  ills  is 
that  we  change  our  very  vices,  and  so  have  not  even  the  advan- 
tage of  dealing  with  a  well-known  form  of  evil;  we  take  pleas- 
ure first  in  one  and  then  in  another,  and  are  besides  troubled 
by  the  fact  that  our  opinions  are  not  only  wrong,  but  lightly 
formed:  we  toss  as  it  were  on  waves,  and  clutch  at  one  thing 
after  another;  we  let  go  what  we  just  now  sought  for,  and  strive 
to  recover  what  we  have  let  go.  We  oscillate  between  desire 
and  remorse:  for  we  depend  entirely  upon  the  opinions  of  oth- 
ers; and  it  is  that  which  many  people  praise  and  seek  after,  not 
that  which  deserves  to  be  praised  and  sought  after,  which  we 
consider  to  be  best.  Nor  do  we  take  any  heed  of  whether  our 
road  be  good  or  bad  in  itself;    but   we   value  it  by  the   number 


13 1  28  SENECA 

of  footprints  upon  it,  among  which  there  are  none  of  any  who 
have  returned.  You  will  say  to  me :  — "  Seneca,  what  are  you 
doing  ?  do  you  desert  your  party  ?  I  am  sure  that  our  Stoic  phi- 
losophers say  we  must  be  in  motion  up  to  the  very  end  of  our 
life:  we  will  never  cease  to  labor  for  the  general  good,  to  help 
individual  people,  and  when  stricken  in  years  to  afford  assist- 
ance even  to  our  enemies.  We  are  the  sect  that  gives  no  dis- 
charge for  any  number  of  years'  service;  and  in  the  words  of 
the  most  eloquent  of  poets, — 

*We  wear  the  helmet  when  our  locks  are  gray.* 

We  are  they  who  are  so  far  from  indulging  in  any  leisure  until 
we  die,  that  if  circumstances  permit  it,  we  do  not  allow  ourselves 
to  be  at  leisure  even  when  we  are  dying.  Why  do  you  preach 
the  maxims  of  Epicurus  in  the  very  headquarters  of  Zeno  ?  nay, 
if  you  are  ashamed  of  your  party,  why  do  you  not  go  openly 
altogether  over  to  the  enemy  rather  than  betray  your  own  side  ?  * 

I  will  answer  this  question  straightway:  What  more  can  you 
wish  than  that  I  should  imitate  my  leaders  ?  What  then  follows  ? 
I  shall  go  whither  they  lead  me,  not  whither  they  send  me. 

Now  I  will  prove  to  you  that  T  am  not  deserting  the  tenets 
of  the  Stoics;  for  they  themselves  have  not  deserted  them:  and 
yet  I  should  be  able  to  plead  a  very  good  excuse  even  if  I  did 
follow,  not  their  precepts,  but  their  examples.  I  shall  divide 
what  I  am  about  to  say  into  two  parts:  first,  that  a  man  may 
from  the  very  beginning  of  his  life  give  himself  up  entirely  to 
the  contemplation  of  truth;  secondly,  that  a  man  when  he  has 
already  completed  his  term  of  service  has  the  best  of  rights  — 
that  of  his  shattered  health  —  to  do  this;  and  that  he  may  then 
apply  his  mind  to  other  studies,  after  the  manner  of  the  Vestal 
Virgins,  who  allot  different  duties  to  different  years, — first  learn 
how  to  perform  the  sacred  rites,  and  when  they  have  learned 
them,  teach  others. 

I  will  show  that  this  is  approved  of  by  the  Stoics  also:  not 
that  I  have  laid  any  commandment  upon  myself  to  do  nothing 
contrary  to  the  teaching  of  Zeno  and  Chrysippus,  but  because  the 
matter  itself  allows  me  to  follow  the  precepts  of  those  men;  for 
if  one  always  follows  the  precepts  of  one  man,  one  ceases  to  be 
a  debater  and  becomes  a  partisan.  Would  that  all  things  were 
already  known;  that  truth  were  unveiled  and  recognized,  and  that 
none  of  our  doctrines  required  modification!  but  as  it  is,  we  have 


I 


SENECA  T3129 

to  seek  for  truth  in  the  company  of  the  very  men  who  teach  it. 
The  two  sects  of  Epicureans  and  Stoics  differ  widely  in  most 
respects,  and  on  this  point  among  the  rest;  nevertheless,  each  of 
them  consigns  us  to  leisure,  although  by  a  different  road.  Epi- 
curus says,  "  The  wise  man  will  not  take  part  in  politics,  except 
upon  some  special  occasion."  Zeno  says,  *^The  wise  man  will  take 
part  in  politics,  unless  prevented  by  some  special  circumstance. " 
The  one  makes  it  his  aim  in  life  to  seek  for  leisure,  the  other 
seeks  it  only  when  he  has  reasons  for  so  doing;  but  this  word 
^*  reasons  '^  has  a  wide  signification.  If  the  State  is  so  rotten  as  to 
be  past  helping,  if  evil  has  entire  dominion  over  it,  the  wise  man 
will  not  labor  in  vain  or  waste  his  strength  in  unprofitable  efforts. 
Should  he  be  deficient  in  influence  or  bodily  strength,  if  the  State 
refuse  to  submit  to  his  guidance,  if  his  health  stand  in  the  way, 
then  he  will  not  attempt  a  journey  for  which  he  is  unfit;  just  as 
he  would  not  put  to  sea  in  a  worn-out  ship,  or  enlist  in  the  army 
if  he  were  an  invalid.  Consequently,  one  who  has  not  yet  suffered 
either  in  health  or  fortune  has  the  right,  before  encountering  any 
storms,  to  establish  himself  in  safety,  and  thenceforth  to  devote 
himself  to  honorable  industry  and  inviolate  leisure,  and  the  serv- 
ice of  those  virtues  which  can  be  practiced  even  by  those  who 
pass  the  quietest  of  lives.  The  duty  of  a  man  is  to  be  useful  to 
his  fellow-men;  if  possible,  to  be  useful  to  many  of  them;  fail- 
ing this,  to  be  useful  to  a  few;  failing  this,  to  be  useful  to  his 
neighbors;  and  failing  them,  to  himself:  for  when  he  helps  others, 
he  advances  the  general  interests  of  mankind.  Just  as  he  who 
makes  himself  a  worse  man  does  harm  not  only  to  himself,  but 
to  all  those  to  whom  he  might  have  done  good  if  he  had  made 
himself  a  better  one, —  so  he  who  deserves  well  of  himself  does 
good  to  others  by  the  very  fact  that  he  is  preparing  what  will 
be  of  service  to  them. 

Let  us  grasp  the  fact  that  there  arc  two  republics:  one  vast 
and  truly  <*pubHc,"  which  contains  alike  gods  and  men,  in  which 
we  do  not  take  account  of  this  or  that  nook  of  land,  but  make 
the  boundaries  of  our  State  reach  as  far  as  the  rays  of  the  sun; 
and  another  to  which  we  have  been  assigned  by  the  accident  of 
birth.  This  may  be  that  of  the  Athenians  or  Carthaginians,  or 
of  any  other  city  which  does  not  belong  to  all  men  but  to  some 
especial  ones.  Some  men  serve  both  of  these  States,  the  greater 
and  the  lesser,  at  the  same  time;  some  serve  only  the  lesser, 
some  only  the  greater.     We  can  serve  the  greater  commonwealth 


13130  SENECA 

even  when  we  are  at  leisure:  indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  we 
cannot  serve  it  better  when  we  are  at  leisure  to  inquire  into 
what  virtue  is,  and  whether  it  be  one  or  many;  whether  it  be 
nature  or  art  that  makes  men  good;  whether  that  which  contains 
the  earth  and  sea  and  all  that  in  them  is,  be  one,  or  whether 
God  has  placed  therein  many  bodies  of  the  same  species.  .  .  . 
*^  But,  '^  say  you,  "  it  makes  a  difference  whether  you  adopt  the 
contemplative  life. for  the  sake  of  your  own  pleasure,  demanding 
nothing  from  it  save  unbroken  contemplation  without  any  result; 
for  such  a  life  is  a  sweet  one  and  has  attractions  of  its  own.** 
To  this  I  answer  }"ou:  It  makes  just  as  much  difference  in  what 
spirit  you  lead  the  life  of  a  public  man;  whether  you  are  never 
at  rest,  and  never  set  apart  any  time  during  which  you  may 
turn  your  eyes  away  from  the  things  of  earth  to  those  of  heaven. 
It  is  by  no  means  desirable  that  one  should  merely  strive  to 
accumulate  property  without  any  love  of  virtue,  or  do  nothing 
but  hard  work  without  any  cultivation  of  the  intellect;  for  these 
things  ought  tp  be  combined  and  blended  together:  and  similarly, 
virtue  placed  in  leisure  without  action  is  but  an  incomplete  and 
feeble  good  thing,  because  she  never  displays  what  she  has 
learned.  Who  can  deny  that  she  ought  to  test  her  progress  in 
actual  work;  and  not  merely  think  what  ought  to  be  done,  but 
also  sometimes  use  her  hands  as  well  as  her  head,  and  bring  her 
conceptions  into  actual  being  ?  But  if  the  wise  man  be  quite 
willing  to  act  thus, — if  it  be  the  things  to  be  done  that  are 
wanting,  not  the  man  to  do  them, —  will  you  not  then  allow  him 
to  live  to  himself  ?  What  is  the  wise  man's  purpose  in  devot- 
ing himself  to  leisure  ?  He  knows  that  in  leisure  as  well  as  in 
action  he  can  accomplish  something  by  which  he  will  be  of  serv- 
ice to  posterity.  Our  school  at  any  rate  declares  that  Zeno  and 
Chrysippus  have  done  greater  things  than  they  would  have  done 
had  they  been  in  command  of  armies,  or  filled  high  offices,  cT 
passed  laws;  which  latter  indeed  they  did  pass,  though  not  foi' 
one  single  State,  but  for  the  whole  human  race.  How  then  car. 
it  be  unbecoming  to  a  good  man  to  enjoy  a  leisure  such  as  this, 
by  whose  means  he  gives  laws  to  ages  to  come,  and  addresses 
himself  not  to  a  few  persons,  but  to  all  men  of  all  nations,  both 
now  and  hereafter  ?  To  sum  up  the  matter,  I  ask  you  whether 
Clean thes,  Chrysippus,  and  Zeno  lived  in  accordance  with  their 
doctrine  ?  I  am  sure  that  you  will  answer  that  they  lived  in 
the  manner  in  which  they  taught  that  men  ought  to  live;   yet  no 


SENECA  131 31 

one  of  them  governed  a  State.  «They  had  not,»  you  reply,  "the 
amount  of  property  or  social  position  which  as  a  rule  enables 
people  to  take  part  in  public  affairs.  ^^  Yet  for  all  that,  they  did 
not  live  an  idle  life:  they  found  the  means  of  making  their 
retirement  more  useful  to  mankind  than  the  perspirings  and 
runnings  to  and  fro  of  other  men;  wherefore  these  persons  are 
thought  to  have  done  great  things,  in  spite  of  their  having  done 
nothing  of  a  public  character. 

Moreover,  there  are  three  kinds  of  life,  and  it  is  a  stock  ques- 
tion which  of  the  three  is  the  best:  the  first  is  devoted  to  pleas- 
ure, the  second  to  contemplation,  the  third  to  action.  First  let 
us  lay  aside  all  disputatiousness  and  bitterness  of  feeling,  which, 
as  we  have  stated,  causes  those  whose  paths  in  life  are  different 
to  hate  one  another  beyond  all  hope  of  reconciliation;  and  let  us 
see  whether  all  these  three  do  not  come  to  the  same  thing, 
although  under  different  names:  for  neither  he  who  decides  for 
pleasure  is  without  contemplation,  nor  is  he  who  gives  himself  up 
to  contemplation  without  pleasure;  nor  yet  is  he  whose  life  is 
devoted  to  action,  without  contemplation.  "  It  makes,  '^  you  say, 
"all  the  difference  in  the  world,  whether  a  thing  is  one's  main 
object  in  life  or  whether  it  be  merely  an  appendage  to  some 
other  object.*^  I  admit  that  the  difference  is  considerable:  never- 
theless, the  one  does  not  exist  apart  from  the  other;  the  one  man 
cannot  live  in  contemplation  without  action,  nor  can  the  other 
act  without  contemplation:  and  even  the  third,  of  whom  we  all 
agree  in  having  a  bad  opinion,  does  not  approve  of  passive  pleas- 
ure, but  of  that  which  he  establishes  for  himself  by  means  of 
reason;  even  this  pleasure-seeking  sect  itself,  therefore,  practices 
action  also.  Of  course  it  does;  since  Epicurus  himself  says  that 
at  times  he  would  abandon  pleasure  and  actually  seek  for  pain, 
if  he  became  likely  to  be  surfeited  with  pleasure,  or  if  he  thought 
that  by  enduring  a  slight  pain  he  might  avoid  a  greater  one. 
With  what  purpose  do  I  state  this  ?  To  prove  that  all  men  are 
fond  of  contemplation.  Some  make  it  the  object  of  their  lives: 
to  us  it  is  an  anchorage,  but  not  a  harbor. 


13 132  SENECA 

THE  WOOING  OF  MEGARA 
(Hercules  Furens,)  Act  II. 

[Enter  Amphitryon  and  Megara,  father  and  wife  of  Hercules,  suppliants 
with  his  children  at  the  altars  of  the  gods.] 

AMPHITRYON  —  Olympus'  ruler  great  and  judge  of  earth 
Now  place  at  last  a  term  to  our  distress 
And  make  an  end  of  sadness.      Never  dawn 
Flashed  on  me  free  from  care.      One  evil's  end 
Ever  begins  a  new  one.      Even  now 
For  him  returning  a  new  foe's  prepared. 
Before  he  gains  his  happy  home  he  goes 
Bidden  to  another  war.      Nor  any  rest 
Nor  any  time  of  leisure  is  there  granted 
But  he  has  some  commands.      From  the  very  first 
Juno  pursues  him  hostile.      Wherein  was  free 
From  care  his  infant  years?      Monsters  he  tamed 
Ere  he  could  even  know  them.      Serpents  twain 
With  crested  heads  threatened  him  open-mouthed 
Whom  boldly  ran  to  meet  the  little  child, 
Seized,  gazing  on  the  serpents'  fiery  looks 
With  undisturb'd,  serene,  and  cheerful  heart         j_f 
[With  quiet  face  he  bore  their  knotted  folds,] 
Pressing  with  tender  hands  their  swelling  throats 
He  crushed  to  death  and  to  the  future  dragon 
Thus  gave  a  prelude.      Masnalus'  swift  stag 
Bearing  aloft  a  head  bright  with  much  gold 
He  chased  and  caught.      Nemea's  greatest  fear, 
The  lion,  groaned,  crushed  by  his  sinewy  strength. 
Why  should  I  tell  the  Bistones'  dread  stalls 
And  the  king  made  a  prey  to  his  own  herds? 
The  shaggy  boar  of  Mcenalus  that  used 
To  shake  the  Arcadian  groves  upon  the  heights 
Of  Erymanthus.      Why  should  I  also  tell 
The  bull  to  hundred  nations  no  light  fear? 


Amid  the  far-off  flocks  of  the  western  isle 
The  triple  shepherd  of  the  Tartesian  shore 
Was  slain,  the  booty  driven  from  utmost  west. 
Cithasron  feared  the  beast  known  to  the  sea. 
Bidden  to  explore  the  climes  of  summer  sun, 
The  scorched  realms  where  midday  ever  burns, 
On  either  side  he  loosed  the  mountains,  burst 


SENECA  13132  a 

The  barrier,  for  the  rushing  mighty  waves 

Made  a  wide  way.      Arriving  afterwards 

At  the  abodes  of  the  rich  grove  he  bore 

Away  the  dragon-guarded  golden  spoils. 

Why  should  I  tell  of  Lerna's  monsters  fierce, 

A  numerous  pest,  whom  he  at  last  with  fire 

Conquered  and  taught  to  die.      In  the  very  clouds 

He  shoots  the  Stymphalian  birds  which  hitherto 

Were  wont  to  veil  the  day  with  outspread  wings. 

He  was  not  conquered  by  the  widow  queen 

Of  couch  unspotted  on  the  Thermodon, 

Nor  did  the  task  of  Augeas'  dirty  stable 

Dismay  his  hands,  to  every  noble  deed 

Made  bold.      But  what  avails  all  this?      He  lacks 

The  world  that  he  defended.      All  the  lands 

Have  felt  that  he,  the  author  of  their  peace. 

Is  far  away.      Lucky,  successful  crime 

Is  virtue  called  at  Thebes.     The  good  obey 

The  bad,  and  might  is  right,  and  slavish  fear 

Bears  down  the  laws.     Before  my  face  I  saw 

With  savage  hand  the  royal  princes  slain. 

Their  father's  throne  defending,  and  himself 

A  victim  fall,  the  last  of  Cadmus'  stock. 

I  saw  the  crown  that  royal  heads  adorns 

Torn  oflf  with  the  head  itself.     Who  Thebes  enough 

Can  pity?      Land  renowned  for  births  of  gods. 

What   master  dost  thou  fear!     Thou  from  whose 

fields, 
A  fertile  womb  indeed,  a  youthful  band 
Sprang  with  drawn  swords,  whose  walls  divine  Am- 

phion 
Built  with  his  lyre,  whose  strain  the  rocks  obeyed, 
Into  whose  city  more  than  once  the  king 
Of  gods  came  down  and  left  the  sky.     Which  oft 
Has  been  the  host  of  gods,  has  made  them  too 
And  —  be  it  right  to  say  —  perchance  shall  make 

them, 
With  sordid  yoke  is  now  this  land  oppressed. 
[To  what  depths,  sons  of  Cadmus  and  the  state 
Of  great  Amphion  have  ye  fallen  down? 
Fear  ye  an  unknown  exile  who  has  fled 
His  fatherland,  and  now  oppresses  ours? 
And  he  who  crime  pursues  by  land  and  sea 
And  breaks  with  righteous  hand  the  tyrants'  sway 
Now  serves,  though  absent,  and  endures  himself 


13132b 


SENECA 


Megara  — 


u  i\; 


Amphitryon  — 


What  he  forbids  to  others.]      Exiled  Lycus 
Reigns  over  Thebes,  the  Thebes  of  Hercules. 
But  reign  he  will  not.      He  will  come  to  seek 
His  vengeance  due  and  suddenly  emerge 
From  hell  to  light  of  day.      He'll  find  a  way 
Or  make  one.      O,  I  pray,  come  safe  and  sound, 
Return  a  victor  to  your  vanquished  home. 
Come  forth,  my  spouse,  and  far  asunder  riven 
Break  through  the  darkness.     If  there's  no  way  back 
And  every  path  is  closed,  then  cleave  in  twain 
The  earth,  return,  and  whatsoe'er  lies  hid. 
Bound   with   the   bonds   of   night,   bring   with   you 

forth. 
Just  as  by  torn-up  ridges  you  once  stood 
And  for  the  hurried  river  sought  a  way 
Precipitous;  riven  with  the  mighty  rush 
Tempe  lay  wide  revealed;  driven  by  your  breast 
The  mountains  hither,  thither  fell,  and,  bursting 
Its  dykes,  Peneus  ran  a  course  unknown  — 
So  now  in  search  of  parents,  children  dear, 
And  fatherland,  burst  through  the  bonds  of  things, 
Bring  with  you  whatsoever  greedy  time 
Has  hidden  in  lapse  of  many  years.      Return 
And  drive  before  you  nations  lost  to  view. 
Forgetful  of  themselves,  afraid  of  day. 
Unworthy  are  your  spoils  if  you  bring  back 
What  is  commanded  only.  —  But  too  much 
I  boast,  forgetting  our  sad  lot.      For  whence 
To  me  that  day  when  I  shall  grasp  your  hand, 
May  kiss  it,  wail  your  slow  return,  unmindful 
Of  me  and  all  my  woes?      To  thee,  O  monarch 
Of  all  the  gods,  a  hundred  untamed  bulls 
Shall   bring   their    necks   for   slaughter.      Queen    of 

fruits, 
I'll  pay  thee  secret  rites.      In  silent  faith 
Shall  mute  Eleusis  cast  thee  torches  long. 
Then  I  will  own  the  life  and  breath  restored 
To  my  dead  brothers  and  my  father  happy, 
Ruling  in  his  own  realms.      If  greater  power 
Keeps  you  a  prisoner,  then  we  follow.     All 
Either  defend  returning  safe,  or  all 
Drag  to  a  like  destruction.     You  will  drag 
Us  down  and  no  god  raise  us  up  again. 
O  partner  of  our  blood,  faithful  and  chaste 
Keeping  the  couch  and  sons  of  Hercules, 


il 


SENECA  13132  c 

Take  better  hope  and  call  your  courage  up. 
Forthwith  he  will  be  here  of  greater  might 
Than  ever,  as  his  wont  has  been,  each  task 
Accomplished. 

,  Megara  —  What  in  grief  too  much  we  wish 

We  easily  believe. 

Amphitryon  —  Nay,  what  we  fear 

Too  much,  we  think  can  never  be  removed. 
Faith  in  the  worst  is  ever  prone  to  fear. 

Megara  —  Sunk,  buried,  weighted  down  with  all  the  earth 

Above  him,  what  way  can  he  find  to  light? 

Amphitryon —  That   which   he   found   when   through   the   parched 

waste 
And  billowy  sands  like  ocean  tempest-tossed 
He  traveled,  twice  the  main  he  cleaved,  and  twice 
Returned,    when    with    abandoned    barque    embar- 
rassed 
He  stuck  in  Syrtes'  shallows,  and,  the  boat 
Remaining  fast,  went  o'er  the  sea  on  foot. 

Megara  —  The  greatest  virtue  unfair  fortune  spares 

But  rarely.      To  so  oft  repeated  dangers 
Can  no  one  long  expose  himself  with  safety. 
[Misfortune  misses  oft  but  hits  at  last. 
But  lo!  with  fierce  and  threatening  countenance 
Comes  Lycus,  wielding  sceptres  not  his  own. 

[Enter  Lycus.] 

Lycus  —  The  ruler  of  the  wealthy  realms  of  Thebes 

And  whatsoe'er  contain  with  fertile  soil 
The  slopes  of  Phocis  that  Ismenus  waters, 
[Whate'er  Citha;ron  sees  from  his  high  top 
And  tlTC  thin  isthmus  cutting  oceans  twain]  — 
I  do  not  hold  a  sire's  ancestral  sway, 
A  slothful  heir.      I  have  no  noble  line 
Of  ancestors,  no  race  of  ancient  fame, 
But  excellence  distinguished.     He  who  boasts 
His  noble  birth,  praises  another's  deeds 
And  not  his  own.      But  sceptres  won  by  force 
Are  held  in  fear.       All  safety  lies  in  steel. 
The  unsheath'd  sword  guards  what   you  know    you 

hold 
Against  your  subjects'  will.      In  foreign  soil 
No  kingdom  stands  secure.      But  Megara 
Can  stay  my  power  in  royal  wedlock  joined. 
Her  noble  birth  to  my  obscurity 


I  3 132 d  SENECA 

Will  color  give.     I  cannot  think  'twill  be 
That  she'll  refuse  and  spurn  with  scorn  my  couch. 
But  if  persistently  with  violent  mind 
She  should  say  no,  one  plan  alone  remains,    ■ 
To  overwhelm  in  one  destruction  all 
The  house  of  Hercules.     The  people's  voice 
With  hatred  such  a  deed  will  follow  close. 
Well,  rule's  first  art  is  the  ability 
To  suffer  hatred.     Therefore  let  us  try, 
Since  chance  has  given  us  opportunity. 
For  she  herself,  her  head  in  sorrow  covered, 
Stands  veiled  by  the  protecting  deities, 
And  by  her  side  clings  Hercules'  true  sire. 
Megara  —  What  new  plot  plans  that  man,  our  race's  ruin? 

What  is  he  attempting? 
Lycus —  '  O  thou  who  drawest 

From  royal  stock  a  noble  name,  a  little 
Gracious  with  patient  ear  receive  my  words. 
If  mortals  always  wage  eternal  hatred. 
If  never  from  our  minds  madness  departs 
When  once  it's  made  a  home  there,  but  the  victor 
Still   carries   arms,    and   fresh   ones   forge   the   van- 
quished, 
War    will    leave    nothing.      With    wide    fields    the 

country 
Will  desert  lie  and  squalid,  burning  dwellings 
Will  overwhelm  the  nations,  in  the  ashes 
Of  their  own  houses  buried.     It  befits 
The  conqueror  to  wish  for  peace.      The  vanquished 
Must  hold  it  a  necessity.      Come  then 
And  share  my  realm.      Be  one  with  me  in  mind 
And  take  this  pledge  of  faith,  touch  my  right  hand. 
But    why    with    countenance    fierce    do    you    keep 
silence? 
Megara  —  Am  I  to  touch  a  hand  stained  with  the  blood 

Of  my  own  father,  and  my  brothers'  slaughter? 

First  shall  the  morning  see  the  sun  go  down 

And   eve   bring   back   the   day.     'Twixt   snow   and 

flame 
First  shall  be  faithful  peace,  and  Scylla  join 
Sicily's  shore  to  Italy  [and  first 
Shall  the  Euboic  wave  of  Euripus, 
With  changeful  swiftness  flying,  stand  unmoved.] 
You  robbed  me  of  my  native  land,  my  home, 
My  sire,  my  brothers.      What  remains  to  me? 


SENECA  ■  131326 

One  thing  is  left,  dearer  than  sire  or  brother, 
Than  native  land,  than  hearth  and  home,  my  hatred 
Of  thee,  which  I  but  mourn  because  I  share  it 
With  all  the  people.      But  how  great  a  portion 
Of  hate  is  mine?      Rule,  swol'n  with  pride.      Display 
Your  haughty  spirit.      The  avenging  god 
Pursues  the  proud  behind.      The  realms  of  Thebes 
I  know  of  old.      Why  should  I  tell  the  wrongs 
That  mothers  dared  and  bore?      The  double  crime 
And  mingled  name  of  spouse  and  child  and  sire? 
Why  the  twin  camps  of  hostile  brothers,  why 
So  many  funeral  piles?      Now  stiff  with  grief 
Stands  the  proud  mother,  Tantalus'  fair  daughter, 
And  weeps  the  rock  in  Phrygian  Sipylus. 
[Cadmus  himself,  lifting  a  serpent's  head. 
Crested  and  threatening,  the  Illyrian  kingdoms 
Measured  in  flight  from  end  to  end,  and  left 
The  long  marks  of  his  dragging  steps  behind.] 
These  instances  await  you.     As  you  will, 
Rule  till  our  realm's  accustomed  fates  shall  call. 

Lycus  —  Come,  mad  one,  lay  aside  these  savage  words 

And  learn  from  Hercules,  your  spouse,  to  bear 
A    king's    commands.      Although    with    conquering 

hand 
I  wield  a  sceptre  won  with  violence. 
And  all  things  rule  without  a  fear  of  laws, 
Which  arms  have  conquered,  I  will  speak  a  little 
In  my  own  cause.      In  bloody  war  your  father 
Fell  with  your  brothers.      Arms  observe  no  bounds. 
Nor  is  it  easy  to  restrain  or  rule 
The  anger  of  the  unsheath'd  sword.      In  gore 
War  takes  delight  —  he  in  his  realm's  defense, 
We  urged  by  wicked  lust  —  war's  end  is  sought 
And  not  its  cause.     But  let  all  memory 
Now  perish  from  our  minds.      For  since  his  arms 
The  victor  has  laid  down,  the  vanquished  too 
To  lay  aside  his  hatred  it  behoves. 
Not  that  on  bended  knee  you  should  adore 
Us  reigning  do  we  seek.     But  this  doth  please  us 
That  you  accept  your  ruin  with  great  mind. 
You  are  a  lady  worthy  of  a  king, 
A  queenly  wife.     Then  come  and  share  my  couch. 

Megara  —  A  chilling  tremor  strikes  my  bloodless  limbs. 

What  crime  has  reached  my  ears?     I  did  not  tremble 
When  peace  was  broken  and  the  crash  of  war 


I3i32f 


SENECA 


Lycus  — 

Megara  — 
Lycus  — 

Megara  — 
Lycus  — 
Megara  — 
Lycus  — 

Megara  — 
Lycus  — 
Megara  — 
Lycus  — 
Megara  — 
Lycus  — 
Megara  — 
Lycus  — 
Megara  ■ — 
Lycus  — 
Megara  — 
Lycus  — 
A  mphitryon 


Lycus  — 

A  mphitryon 
Lycus  — 
A  mphitryon 
Lycus  — 
A  mphitryon 


Sounded  about  the  rampart.     Fearlessly 

I  bore  all  terrors.      From  your  nuptial  couch 

Trembling  I  shrink.      Now  first  of  all  I  feel 

Myself  a  prisoner.      Now  let  heavy  chains 

Weigh  down  my  body  and  with  hunger  slow 

Let  death  be  long  drawn  out.      No  force  shall  break 

My  constancy.      I'll  die,  Alcides,  thine. 

Your  spouse  inspires  your  heart  in  depths  of  hell? 

He  sank  to  hell  that  he  might  rise  to  heaven. 

The    earth's    unmeasured    weight    now    keeps    him 

down. 
No  weight  keeps  that  man  down  who  bore  the  sky. 
You  will  be  forced. 

What  force  can  o'ercome  death? 
Confess  what  royal  gift  could  I  prepare 
Equal  to  marriage  bonds? 

Your  death  or  mine. 
Mad,  will  you  die? 

I'll  run  to  meet  my  spouse. 
Do  you  prefer  a  slave  to  me,  a  monarch? 
How  many  monarchs  has  that  slave  destroyed? 
Then  why  serves  he  a  king  and  bears  the  yoke? 
Take  hard  commands  away,  and  where  is  virtue? 
You  think  it  virtue  to  meet  beasts  and  monsters? 
'Tis  virtue's  part  to  vanquish  what  all  fear. 
Now  the  Tartarean  shades  oppress  the  boaster. 
It  is  no  easy  path  from  earth  to  heaven. 
Born  of  what  father  does  he  hope  for  heaven? 
Now  list,   Alcides'   miserable  spouse. 
My  part  it  is  to  give  to  Hercules 
His  sire  and  true  extraction.      Do  but  think  on 
So  many  famous  deeds  of  our  great  hero, 
Whatever   Titan  rising,   setting,  sees. 
Tamed  by  his  hand,  so  many  monsters  vanquished 
And   Phlegra's  land  scattered   with  gore  rebellious 
Against  the  gods,  the  gods  themselves  defended. 
Is  not  his  father  clear?      Do  we  wrong  Jove? 
Trust  Jvmo's  hatred. 

But  why  slander  Jove? 
The  mortal  race  cannot  be  joined  with  heaven. 
Many  gods  had  this  common  origin. 
And  were  they  slaves  before  they  reached  the  sky? 
The  Delian  shepherd  fed  Admetus'  flocks. 
But  wandered  not  an  exile  through  all  lands. 
On  wandering  isle  of  exiled  mother  born. 


SENECA  13  I  32  g 

Lycus  —  Did  Phoebus  fear  fierce  monsters  or  wild  beasts? 

Amphitryon  —  The  dragon  dyed  his  arrows  with  its  blood. 

Do  you  not  know  what  ills  the  baby  bore 
Cast  by  the  thunder  from  his  mother's  womb? 
[He  soon  stood  boldly  by  his  thundering  sire.] 
And  did  not  he,  who  rules  the  sky  and  shakes 
The  clouds,  lie  hid  an  infant  in  a  cave 
On  Ida's  mount.      Such  high  nativities 
Are  paid  with  anxious  care.      The  cost  is  great, 
Both  is  and  has  been,  to  be  born  a  god. 

Lycus  —  Whomever  you  see  luckless,  know  a  man. 

Amphitryon  —  Whomever  you  see  valiant,  call  not  luckless. 

Lycus  —  Are  we  to  call  him  valiant  from  whose  shoulders 

The  lion's  skin  and  club  fell,  to  be  made 
A  wench's  gift,  whose  side  shone  clothed  in  purple? 
Are  we  to  call  him  valiant  whose  stiff  hair 
Was  wet  with  ointment,  whose  renowned  hands 
Moved  to  the  unheroic  timbrel's  sound? 

Amphitryon  —  With  barbarous  coif  his  savage  forehead  binding 

Young  Bacchus  did  not  blush  his  locks  to  spread 
Wide  to  the  breeze,  or  with  soft  hand  to  wield 
The  thyrsus  light,  when  with  unmartial  step 
He  wore  a  robe  bright  with  barbaric  gold. 
Virtue  relaxes  after  many  toils. 

Lycus  —  The  house  of  o'erwhelmed  Teuthras  speaks  to  that 

And  flocks  of  virgins  pure  oppressed  like  cattle. 
This  did  not  Juno,  nor  Eurystheus  bid. 
These  are  his  own  achievements. 

Amphitryon  —  You  know  not  all. 

His  own  achievement  was  it  to  beat  Eryx 
With  his  own  gloves,  yea  and  to  Eryx  joined 
Libyan  Antaeus.     And  the  bloody  hearths. 
Stained  with  the  gore  of  guests,  were  made  to  drink 
The  righteous  blood  of  wicked  Busiris. 
His  own  achievement  was  it  to  slay  Cycnus, 
As  yet  untamed,  who  ran  upon  the  sword, 
And    Gcryon,    more   than   one,    by   one   hand   van- 
quished. 
But  you,  no  doubt,  are  one  of  those  good  people 
Who  by  no  shameful  deed  have  injured  wedlock 
Of  marriage-bed  inviolate. 

Lycus  —  What  Jove  may  do, 

A   king    may.      A   wife    to    Jove    you   gave,    a   wife 

you'll  give 
To  me,  a  king.      And  by  your  tutorship 


13  1 32  h  SENECA 

Your  daughter  here  will  learn  this  old,  old  lesson, 
Which  e'en  her  spouse  approves,  the  better  man 
To  follow.      If  she  steadfastly  refuses 
To  join  with  me  in  marriage,  from  her  body, 
Ravished  by  force,  a  noble  stock  I'll  raise. 

Megara  —  Ye  shades  of  Creon  and  the  household  gods 

Of  Labdacus  and  the  dread  nuptial  torch 
Of  Qildipus,  give  your  accustomed  fates 
To  your  communion.      Now  ye  cruel  daughters 
Of  King  Egyptus  come  with  blood-dyed  hands. 
One  of  their  number  lack  the  Danaides. 
I  will  fill  up  the  place,  complete  the  crime. 

Lycus  —  Since  stubbornly  you  spurn  with  scorn  our  union 

And  terrify  a  king,  you  now  shall  know 
The  power  of  a  king's  sceptre.     You  will  cling 
Fast  to  the  altars,  but  no  god  shall  save  you 
Not  if,  the  world  removed,  Alcides  came 
Victorious,  to  the  gods  in  triumph  borne. 
Heap  up  the  wood.      Let  the  fire  blaze  and  fall 
In  on  the  suppliants.      Apply  the  torch 
And  let  one  pyre  burn  wife  and  all  the  flock. 

Amphitryon  —  This  boon  I  pray  from  thee,  Alcides'  sire, 

Which  be  it  fit  to  ask,  that  first  I  fall. 

Lycus  —  Who  bids  one  punishment  slay  all  together 

Knows  not  to  be  a  tyrant.      Ask  again 
And  something  different.      The  unhappy  man 
Forbid  to  die,  the  happy  bid  destroy. 
I,  while  with  faggots  grows  the  funeral  pile 
Will  sacrifice  to  Neptune,  ocean's  lord. 

Amphitryon  —  O  highest  power  of  deities  on  high. 

Ruler  omnipotent,  at  whose  weapons  tremble 
All  human  things,  this  wicked  king's  right  hand 
Smite  and  restrain!     Why  vainly  pray  to  gods? 
Where'er  thou  art,  my  son,  O  hear!  —  Why  totter 
The  temples  tossed  with  sudden  motion?     Why 
Groans  loud  the  ground?      From  lowest  depths  of 

hell 
A  crash  infernal  thundered.      We  are  heard. 
It  is,  it  is  the  step  of  Hercules. 

Translated  by  J.  W.  Cunliffe. 


^3^33 


MATILDE   SERAO 

(1856-) 

I  MONO  the  novel-writers  of  the  present  generation  in  Italy, 
Matilde  Serao  occupies  a  place  of  honor  and  popularity. 
She  was  born  on  March  7th,  1856,  in  Patras,  a  seaport  of 
Greece ;  so  that  Italian  is  in  reality  for  her  an  acquired  language. 
Her  mother  was  a  Greek,  and  descended  from  the  princes  Scanavy, 
who  gave  emperors  to  Trebizond.  Her  father  was  a  Neapolitan 
exile,  who  returned  to  his  native  city  only  when  Matilde  was  twelve 
years  of  age.  Signora  Serao  superintended  the  early  education  of 
her  daughter,  who  is  said  to  have  been  a  lazy  child,  with  a  strong 
dislike  of  study.  She  found  reading  a  pleasant  pastime,  however, 
and  was  interested  in  people  and  in  the  general  routine  of  life. 
When  sent  to  school  in  France  she  fed  her  mind  on  the  novels 
of  the  French  realistic  school,  and  soon  began  to  write  on  her  own 
account.  When  seventeen  years  of  age  she  published  her  first  story, 
which  was  entitled  <Opal.^  This  tale  created  some  little  stir;  and 
De  Zerbi,  editor  of  the  Neapolitan  Piccolo,  offered  her  a  place  on 
his  journal.  The  Serao  family  was  poor,  and  this  offer  was  eagerly 
accepted.  In  order  to  do  better  work  as  a  reporter,  she  assumed  a 
man's  dress  and  cropped  her  hair.  The  adaptability  of  her  tempera- 
ment enabled  her  to  write  to  order  with  great  facility.  When  her 
talent  was  left  entirely  free  she  usually  wrote  sensuous  love  tales,  in 
which  the  dews  of  the  fields  and  the  stars  of  the  sky  were  called 
upon  to  witness  the  raptures  and  the  sorrows  of  her  heroes  and 
heroines.  With  equal  ease,  however,  she  produced  sermons  and  criti- 
cisms. Her  teeming  imagination  overflowed  the  restriction  of  sub- 
ject. Despite  her  versatility  and  her  need  of  money,  it  seems  to 
have  been  always  her  aim  to  do  the  best  of  which  she  was  capable; 
and  thus  her  work  was  always  a  means  of  development  to  her  talent. 
She  married  Signor  Eduardo  Scarfoglio,  and  with  him  established 
the  Corriere  di  Roma.  They  afterwards  removed  to  Naples,  where 
they  edited  the  Corriere  di  Napoli.  In  1881  and  1883  she  published 
two  long  romances,  and  gathered  into  volumes  those  of  her  short 
stories  which  she  deemed  worthy  to  live.  She  is  fond  of  studying 
child  life;  and  in  her  story  <  Little  Minds,*  written  for  grown  peo- 
ple, she  pictures  the  little  woes  and  pleasures  and  philosophies  of 
children  with  that  detail  and  objective  passion  which  is  characteristic 
of  her. 


J2I34  MATILDE   SERAO 

<An  Unsteady  Heart  ^  was  her  first  long  novel,  and  was  followed 
by  <  Fantasia.^  This  is  the  story  of  a  morbid  and  fanatically  reli- 
gious invalid,  who  through  her  sickly  romanticism  is  led  into  sinful 
feeling.  She  infatuates  the  husband  of  her  dearest  friend,  and  finally 
leaves  her  own  husband  to  run  away  with  him ;  but,  overcome  with 
remorse,  evades  her  lover,  and  smothers  herself  with  charcoal,  to 
secure  the  happiness  of  the  deserted  wife. 

Madame  Serao's  plots  are  usually  tragedies,  and  are  worked  out 
with  precision  and  refinement  of  passion.  She  is  a  painter  of  details; 
no  incident  or  expression  is  too  trivial  for  her  observation,  and  she 
loves  the  minutest  traceries  of  life,  which  she  sees  purely  from  its 
emotional  side.  She  is  sometimes  called  '*  La  petite  Sand  Italienne '' ; 
but  while  her  mind  has  perhaps  been  influenced  by  French  realists, 
her  stories  are  essentially  the  creations  of  a  more  southern  tempera- 
ment.     Many  of  her  later  novels  have  been  translated  into  English. 


FROM   <A  MIDSUMMER   NIGHT'S   DREAM  > 

MASSIMO  was  alone.  A  friend  of  his  youth  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  years  until  to-day,  when  he  had  accidentally  met 
him  in  the  street,  had  returned  to  dine  with  him  at  seven 
o'clock  after  the  happy  recognition  took  place.  Massimo  was  en- 
during wearily  the  burden  of  a  summer  in  town.  Always  before 
he  had  gone  to  the  country  in  June ;  but  he  had  looked  forward  to 
this  as  a  happy  evening  of  memories  in  the  companionship  of  his 
recovered  friend.  Between  the  pleasures  of  dinner,  of  cigarettes, 
and  of  wine,  they  had  indeed  passed  two  cozy  hours  in  chatting 
of  old  times.  They  began  all  their  sentences  by  saying  "  Do  you 
remember  ?  ^^  They  laughed  deliciously  at  dear  memories  which 
crowded  upon  their  minds;  interrupting  each  other  occasionally 
by  an  exclamation  of  regret  or  a  sigh  of  longing  for  the  return 
of  those  old  days. 

Yet  in  the  very  midst  of  the  friendly  merriment  which  filled 
their  hearts,  they  had  become  conscious  of  a  sense  of  melancholy. 
The  two  men  had  traveled  different  paths  through  life,  and  had 
become  very  unlike  in  everything.  They  had  set  out  from  the 
same  point,  and  had  studied  together.  But  the  friend  was  now  a 
well-known  lawyer  in  one  of  the  provinces;  he  had  a  wife  and 
family,  was  guided  by  simple,  practical  ideas,  and  by  a  mind  and 


MATILDE   SERAO  ^3^25 

temperament  somewhat  slow  and  deliberate.  Massimo,  on  the 
contrary,  had  wandered  for  ten  or  fifteen  years  in  foreign  coun- 
tries, connected  now  with  this  legation,  now  with  that;  a  diplo- 
mat without  enthusiasm;  indolent,  and  unable  on  account  of  his 
laziness  to  build  up  a  career.  He  was  content  or  not,  according 
to  his  mood,  with  his  position  of  secretary.  He  was  a  handsome 
man  of  the  southern  type,  but  had  already  lost  the  freshness  of 
youth;  his  hair  was  growing  thin  over  his  forehead,  and  his 
eyes  were  lustreless.  He  had  comfortable  means  without  being 
extremely  rich,  and  was  now  playing  the  martyr  in  Naples  on  a 
leave  of  absence;  his  friends  called  it  a  penance.  Massimo  was 
refined,  and  a  man  of  spirit  and  intelligence;  but  he  was  con- 
sumed by  the  monotony  of  his  existence,  and  also  oppressed  by 
private  cares  and  sorrows.  His  friend  was  a  man  of  talents,  but 
strong  and  quiet;  rather  stout  and  lethargic  in  his  appearance; 
controlled  always  by  sound  provincial  common-sense,  which  con- 
demns originality  as  folly,  and  sacrifices  the  pleasures  of  the 
present  for  the   sake  of  enjoying   a   too  distant  future. 

Thus,  while  one  man  told  the  story  of  his  life,  the  other 
listened  and  judged  it  according  to  his  temperament;  judged  it 
coldly  in  his  heart,  though  for  the  sake  of  the  old  friendship  he 
was  not  too  honest  in  his  expressions,  but  gently  modified  his 
speech.  Nevertheless,  they  felt  the  distance  which  was  between 
them.  At  one  juncture  they  even  searched  each  other's  face 
in  doubt,  so  much  like  strangers  did  they  seem;  but  they  said 
nothing.  Perhaps  in  his  heart  Massimo  envied  the  provincial 
lawyer  of  reputation,  with  his  limited  ambition  and  his  power 
of  assiduous  work,  envied  him  his  fat,  peaceful  family,  so  well 
sheltered  from  the  storms  of  life,  and  his  comfortable  house, 
which  had  been  the  house  of  his  ancestors  and  which  would 
become  the  home  of  his  descendants;  envied  him  his  practicality, 
his  seriousness  and  equilibrium,  and  indeed  all  those  possessions 
which  were  lacking  to  himself.  And  the  lawyer  envied  Massimo 
his  vagabond  life  of  an  aristocrat  in  foreign  courts;  his  future, 
which  he  had  the  power  to  make  splendid;  his  bachelor  freedom, 
and  the  adventures  of  his  ideal  existence ;  and  the  elegant  and 
exquisite  apartments  which  he  shared  with  no  one.  These  were 
dreams  which  had  never  disturbed  his  provincial  sleep. 

Simultaneously  they  sighed.  The  evening  was  hot;  the  door 
was  open  between  the  room  where  they  smoked  and  the  balcony, 
but  no  breath   of   air  came  to  them;   only  a  heavy  fragrance  of 


13 1 36  MATILDE   SERAO 

jessamine.  They  were  conscious  of  having  grown  sad.  They 
had  recalled  too  much  of  the  past,  had  unearthed  too  many 
buried  monuments,  evoked  too  many  lost  friends  who  had  once 
been  dear,  and  too  many  dead  loves.  This  cannot  be  done  with- 
out a  mingled  feeling  of  sadness  and  pleasure;  and  the  pleasure 
soon  vanishes,  while  the  sadness  remains.  They  smoked  on  in 
silence,  their  heads  resting  on  the  high  back  of  the  sofa.  Then 
the  lawyer  looked  at  his  watch,  and  said  out  of  courtesy:  — 

^^  Will  you  come  out  with  me  ?  '* 

Had  they  not  said  all  which  they  had  to  say  ?  Had  they 
not,  perhaps,  done  foolishly  in  telling  so  much  ?  Massimo  replied 
politely  that  he  was  obliged  to  write  some  urgent  letters,  but 
that  he  would  be  at  the  villa  later,  at  about  eleven  o'clock.  The 
lawyer  replied  in  an  indifferent  tone  that  he  too  would  be  there 
then;  and  the  friends  separated,  each  assured  that  they  would  not 
meet  again  this  evening, —  perhaps  indeed  that  they  would  never 
meet  again.  However  sweet  the  past  has  been,  it  is  dead;  and 
phantoms,  however  beautiful  they  may  be,  trouble  the  soul  of  the 
most  courageous. 

When  he  was  alone,  Massimo  regretted  that  he  had  brought 
this  friend  to  his  house.  So  many  closed  wounds  had  begun 
again  to  bleed  in  these  last  two  hours!  While  he  continued  to 
smoke,  he  heard  his  servant  arranging  things  in  the  small  dining- 
room.  After  a  little,  the  boy  came  to  ask  if  his  master  had 
need  of  him  this  evening;  if  not,  he  wanted  to  go  out  with  a 
few  friends  and  find  relief  from  the  heat.  Massimo  dismissed 
him  readily;  the  door  closed,  and  he  was  entirely  alone.  But  his 
evening  was  lost.  He  had  imprudently  ascended  the  river  of  the 
past  in  company  with  a  person  whom  he  had  loved;  the  voyage 
had  discouraged  him,  had  made  him  lose  all  which  had  remained 
to  him  of  moral  force,  through  which  he  had  been  enabled  to 
endure  the  loneliness  and  discomforts  of  a  Neapolitan  summer. 
In  his  hours  of  rebellion,  when  he  was  spiritually  prostrated  and 
the  victim  of  excessive  physical  inertia,  and  when  his  heart  rose 
within  him  resentfully,  he  was  wont  to  smoke  certain  soothing 
Egyptian  cigarettes,  which  usually  in  the  end  quieted  him.  On 
this  summer  evening,  however,  the  cigarettes  went  out  between 
his  drawn  lips,  and  he  threw  them  away  one  by  one  when  they 
were  but  partly  burned.  He  went  to  the  balcony.  He  lived  on 
the  third  floor  of  a  large  palace  in  the  Via  Gennaro  Serra;  and 
because  on  account  of  the  slope  of  the  street  the  houses  in  front 


MATILDE    SERAO  I  3137 

of  him  were  lower  than  his,  he  had  a  ghmpse  of  the  sea  and  saw 
a  great  sweep  of  starry  sky. 

The  night  was  most  beautiful;  the  Milky  Way  was  trembling 
luminously:  but  no  breeze  stirred,  and  the  air  hung  heavy.  His 
head  seemed  on  fire.  Though  alone  and  weary,  he  could  not  keep 
still;  he  took  a  pen  and  tried  to  write.  Suddenly  his  face  grew 
whiter  than  the  paper  in  front  of  him;  it  was  as  though  he  had 
seen  a  vision  among  the  shadows  of  the  room.  There  was  a  con- 
tinuous rumble  of  carriages  in  the  Via  Gennaro  Serra.  All  the 
people  were  coming  out  of  their  houses  and  walking  the  streets  in 
search  of  air  to  breathe ;  they  wanted  to  look  at  the  stars,  and  to 
enjoy  the  Neapolitan  night,  beautiful,  and  even  cool  in  the  small 
hours.  Again  he  went  to  the  balcony;  he  was  suffocating.  He 
returned  to  his  desk  to  write,  but  was  unable  to  do  so.  Why 
should  he  write  ?  Of  what  use  are  black  letters  traced  on  white 
paper  when  one  is  suffering  from  passionate  loneliness  ?  The 
parent  or  friend  or  sweetheart  to  whom  they  are  addressed  will 
perhaps  read  them  aloud  to  some  stranger,  and  laugh  unsympa- 
thetically  at  their  expressions.  Too  much  time  and  too  many 
events  lie   between   the   moment  of  writing  and   that  of  reading. 

A  hand-organ  began  to  play  in  the  Piazza  Monte  de  Dio.  It 
played  in  slow,  measured  time  a  song  which  should  have  been 
gay,  but  which  thus  became  curiously  sad.  Massimo  was  irritated 
by  this  sentimental  or  tired  organ-grinder,  who  changed  a  taran- 
tella into  a  funeral  march.  Perhaps  he  was  old,  however;  per- 
haps his  day  had  been  poor:  surely  he  must  be  an  unhappy 
creature,  or  he  would  not  grind  out  such  a  mournful  funeral 
dirge.  Massimo  leaned  over  the  balcony  railing,  and  impulsively 
threw  him  a  two-franc  piece.  After  a  moment  the  music  ceased, 
and  Massimo  was  sorry.  He  felt  more  lonely,  more  comfortless, 
more  desperate,  than  ever  before  during  his  stay  in  Naples. 
What  could  he  do  ?  Where  could  he  go  ?  where  could  he  carry 
his  weary  soul  and  body  ?  Was  there  any  one  at  hand  whom  he 
knew,  in  whose  company,  no  matter  how  insipid  and  unpleasing 
it  might  be,  he  could  pass  this  summer  night  ?  He  felt  that  he 
could  not  sleep.  He  knew  indeed  that  there  was  no  help  for  his 
melancholy. 


13138  MATILDE   SERAO 

The  passages  from  <  Fantasy  >  are  reprinted  with  the  permission  of  the  Amer 
ican  Publishers'  Corporation,  publishers.] 

THE   BOARDING-SCHOOL 
From  <  Fantasy.  >     Copyright  1890,  by  Henry  Harland 

«rTpHE  discipline  for  to-morrow  is  this/^  said  the  preacher,  read- 

J[       ing  from  a  small  card:    "You  will  sacrifice  to  the  Virgin 

Mary    all    the    sentiments    of    rancor    that    you    cherish    in 

your   hearts,  and   you    will   kiss   the    schoolfellow,  the    teacher,  or 

the   servant  whom  you  think  you  hate.* 

In  the  twilight  of  the  chapel  there  was  a  slight  stir  among 
the  grown-up  girls  and  teachers:  the  little  ones  remained  quiet; 
some  of  them  were  asleep,  others  yawned  behind  tiny  hands,  and 
their  small  round  faces  twitched  with  weariness.  The  sermon 
had  lasted  an  hour,  and  the  poor  children  had  not  understood 
a  word  of  it.  They  were  longing  for  supper  and  bed.  The 
preacher  had  now  descended  from  the  pulpit,  and  Cherubina 
Friscia,  the  teacher  who  acted  as  sacristan,  was  lighting  the 
candles  with  a  tapei".  By  degrees  the  chapel  became  flooded 
with  light.  The  cheeks  of  the  dazed,  sleepy  little  girls  flushed 
pink  under  it;  their  elders  stood  immovable,  with  blinking  startled 
eyes  and  weary  indifferent  faces.  Some  prayed  with  bowed 
heads,  while  the  candle-light  played  with  the  thick  plaits  of  their 
hair  coiled  close  to  their  neck,  and  with  certain  blonde  curls 
that  no  comb  could  restrain.  Then  when  the  whole  chapel  was 
lighted  for  the  recital  of  the  '■  Rosary,  ^  the  group  of  girl  scholars 
in  white  muslin  frocks,  with  black  aprons,  and  the  various  colored 
ribbons  by  which  the  classes  were  distinguished,  assumed  a  gay 
aspect,  despite  the  general  weariness.  A  deep  sigh  escaped  Lucia 
Altimare. 

"  What  ails  thee  ?  ^^  queried  Caterina  Spaccapietra,  under  her 
breath. 

"I  suffer,  I  suffer, >^  murmured  the  other  dreamily.  "This 
preacher  saddens  me.  He  does  not  understand  Our  Lady,  he 
does  not  feel  her."  And  the  black  pupils  of  her  eyes,  set  in 
bluish-white,  dilated  as  in  a  vision.  Caterina  did  not  reply.  The 
directress  intoned  the  *  Rosary  ^  in  a  solemn  voice,  with  a  strong 
Tuscan  accent.  She  read  the  <  Mystery  *  alone.  Then  all  the 
voices  in  chorus,  shrill  and  low,  accompanied  her  in  the  '■  Gloria 
Patri  *  and  in  the  *  Pater.  * 


MATILDE   SERAO  13 139 

She  repeated  the  ^Ave  Maria  ^  as  far  as  the  ^^  Friitto  del  tuo 
ventre  *^ ;  the  teachers  and  pupils  taking  up  the  words  in  unison. 
The  chapel  was  filled  with  music,  the  elder  pupils  singing  with  a 
fullness  of  voice  that  sounded  like  the  outpouring  of  their  souls: 
but  the  little  ones  made  a  game  of  it.  While  the  directress, 
standing  alone,  repeated  the  verses,  they  counted  the  time,  so 
that  they  might  all  break  in  at  the  end  with  a  burst;  and  nudg- 
ing each  other,  tittered  under  their  breath.  Some  of  them  would 
lean  over  the  backs  of  the  chairs,  assuming  a  devout  collected- 
ness;  but  in  reality  pulling  out  the  hair  of  the  playfellows  in 
front  of  them.  Some  played  with  their  rosaries  under  their  pina- 
fores, with  an  audible  click  of  the  beads.  The  vigilant  eye  of  the 
directress  watched  over  the  apparently  exemplary  elder  girls:  she 
saw  that  Carolina  Pentasuglia  wore  a  carnation  at  the  buttonhole 
of  her  bodice,  though  no  carnations  grew  in  the  college  gardens; 
that  a  little  square  of  paper  was  perceptible  in  the  bosom  of 
Ginevra  Avigliana,  beneath  the  muslin  of  her  gown;  that  Arte- 
misia Minichini,  with  the  short  hair  and  firm  chin,  had  as  usual 
crossed  one  leg  over  the  other,  in  contempt  of  religion:  she  saw 
and  noted  it  all.  Lucia  Altimare  sat  leaning  forward,  with  wide- 
open  eyes  fixed  upon  a  candle,  her  mouth  drawn  slightly  on  one 
side;  from  time  to  time  a  nervous  shock  thrilled  her.  Close  to 
her,  Caterina  Spaccapietra  said  her  prayers  in  all  tranquillity,  her 
eyes  void  of  sight  as  was  her  face  of  motion  and  expression. 
The  directress  said  the  words  of  the  ^Ave  Maria  ^  without  think- 
ing of  their  meaning;  absent,  preoccupied,  getting  through  her 
prayers  as  rapidly  as  possible. 

The  restlessness  of  the  little  ones  increased.  They  twisted 
about,  and  lightly  raised  themselves  on  their  chairs,  whispering 
to  each  other,  and  fidgeting  with  their  rosaries.  Virginia  Friozzi 
had  a  live  cricket  in  her  pocket,  with  a  fine  silken  thread  tied 
round  its  claw;  at  first  she  had  covered  it  with  her  hand  to 
prevent  its  moving,  then  she  had  allowed  it  to  peep  out  of  the 
opening  of  her  pocket:  then  she  had  taken  it  out  and  hidden  it 
under  her  apron ;  at  last  she  could  not  resist  showing  it  to  the 
neighbors  on  her  right  and  on  her  left.  The  news  spread,  the 
children  became  agitated,  restraining  their  laughter  with  difficulty, 
and  no  longer  giving  the  responses  in  time.  Suddenly  the  cricket 
dragged  at  the  thread,  and  hopped  off, —  limping  into  the  midst 
of  the  passage  which  divided  the  two  rows  of  chairs.  There  was 
a  burst  of  laughter. 


IX140  MATILDE   SERAO 

^^  Friozzi  will  not  appear  in  the  parlor  to-morrow,"  said  the 
directress  severely. 

The  child  turned  pale  at  the  harshness  of  a  punishment  which 
would  prevent  her  from  seeing  her  mother. 

Cherubina  Friscia,  the  sacristan-teacher,  of  cadaverous  com- 
plexion and  worn  anaemic  face,  descended  the  altar  steps  and 
confiscated  the  cricket.  There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  and 
then  they  heard  the  gasping  voice  of  Lucia  Altimare  murmuring, 
"Mary —     Mary —     Divine  Mary!" 

<*  Pray  silently,  Altimare,"  gently  suggested  the  directress. 

The  ^  Rosary  ^  began  again,  this  time  without  interruption. 
All  knelt  down,  with  a  great  noise  of  moving  chairs;  and  the 
Latin  words  were  recited,  almost  chanted,  in  chorus.  Caterina 
Spaccapietra  rested  her  head  against  the  back  of  the  chair  in 
front  of  her.  Lucia  Altimare  had  thrown  herself  down,  shudder- 
ing, with  her  head  on  the  straw  seat  and  arms  hanging  slack  at 
her  side. 

"The  blood  will  go  to  your  head,  Lucia,"  whispered  her 
friend. 

"  Leave  me  alone, "  saiji  Lucia. 

The  pupils  rose  from  their  knees.  One  of  them,  accompanied 
by  a  teacher,  had  mounted  the  steps  leading  to  the  little  organ. 
The  teacher  played  a  simple  devotional  prelude  for  the  *  Litany 
to  the  Virgin.*  A  pure  fresh  voice,  of  brilliant  quality,  rang  out 
and  permeated  the  chapel,  waking  its  sleeping  echoes;  a  young 
yearning  voice,  crying  with  the  ardor  of  an  invocation,  "  Sancta 
Maria !  "  And  from  below,  all  the  pupils  responded  in  the  minor 
key,  "  Ora  pro  nobis ! "  The  singer  stood  in  the  light  on  the 
platform  of  the  organ,  her  face  turned  towards  the  altar.  She 
was  Giovanna  Casacalenda,  a  tall  girl  whose  white  raiment  did 
not  conceal  her  fine  proportions;  a  girl  with  a  massive  head,  upon 
which  her  dark  hair  was  piled  heavily,  and  with  eyes  so  black 
that  they  appeared  as  if  painted.  She  stood  there  alone,  isolated, 
infusing  all  the  passion  of  her  youth  into  her  full  mellow  voice, 
delighting  in  the  pleasure  of  singing  as  if  she  had  freed  herself 
and  lived  in  her  song.  The  pupils  turned  to  look  at  her,  with 
the  joy  in  music  which  is  inherent  in  childhood.  When  the  voice 
of  Giovanna  came  down  to  them,  the  chorus  rising  from  below 
answered,  "  Ora  pro  nobis !  "  She  felt  her  triumph.  With  head 
erect,  her  wondrous  black  eyes  swimming  in  a  humid  light,  her 
right   hand   resting   lightly   on  the   wooden   balustrade,  her  white 


MATILDE    SERAO  13141 

throat  throbbing  as  if  for  love,  she  intoned  the  medi'dm  notes, 
ran  up  to  the  highest  ones,  and  came  down  gently  to  the  lower, 
giving  full  expression  to  her  song :  "  Regina  Angelorum !  **  One 
moment  of  silence,  in  which  to  enjoy  the  last  notes;  then  from 
below,  in  enthusiastic  answer,  came  childish  and  youthful  voices: 
*  Ora  pro  nobis !  "  The  singer  looked  fixedly  at  the  altar,  but  she 
seemed  to  see  or  hear  something  beyond  it  —  a  vision  or  music 
inaudible  to  the  others.  Every  now  and  then  a  breath  passed 
through  her  song,  lending  it  warmth,  making  it  passionate;  every 
now  and  then  the  voice  thinned  itself  to  a  golden  thread,  that 
sounded  like  the  sweet  trill  of  a  bird,  while  occasionally  it  sank 
to  a  murmur,  with  a  delicious  hesitation. 

<*  Giovanna  sees  heaven,*^  said  Ginevra  Avigliana  to  Artemisia 
Minichini. 

"Or  the  stage,'*  rejoined  the  other  skeptically. 

Still,  when  Giovanna  came  to  the  poetic  images  by  which  the 
Virgin  is  designated, —  Gate  of  Heaven,  Vase  of  Election,  Tower 
of  David, —  the  girls'  faces  flushed  in  the  ecstasy  of  that  won- 
drous music:  only  Caterina  Spaccapietra,  who  was  absorbed,  did 
not  join  in,  and  Lucia  Altimare,  who  wept  silently.  The  tears 
coursed  down  her  thin  cheeks.  They  rained  upon  her  bosom  and 
her  hands;  they  melted  away  on  her  apron;  and  she  did  not 
dry  them.  Caterina  quietly  passed  her  handkerchief  to  her,  but 
she  took  no  notice  of  it.  The  preacher.  Father  Capece,  went 
up  the  altar  steps  for  the  benediction.  The  Litany  ended  with 
the  ^ Agnus  Dei.'  The  voice  of  the  singer  seemed  overpowered 
by  sheer  fatigue.  Once  more  all  the  pupils  knelt,  and  the  priest 
prayed.  Giovanna,  kneeling  at  the  organ,  breathed  heavily.  After 
five  minutes  of  silent  prayer,  the  organ  pealed  out  again  slowly 
over  the  bowed  heads,  and  a  thrilling  resonant  voice  seemed  to 
rise  from  mid-air  towards  heaven,  lending  its  splendor  to  the 
sacrament  in 'the  ^  Tantum  Ergo.'  Giovanna  was  no  longer  tired; 
indeed  her  song  grew  in  power,  triumphant  and  full  of  life, 
with  "an  ebb  and  flow  that  were  almost  voluptuous.  The  throb 
of  its  passion  passed  over  the  youthful  heads  below,  and  a  mys- 
tic sensation  caused  their  hearts  to  flutter.  In  the  intensity  of 
their  prayer,  in  the  approach  of  the  benediction,  they  realized 
the  solemnity  of  the  moment.  It  dominated  and  terrified  them, 
until  it  was  followed  by  a  painful  and  exquisite  prostration.  All 
was  silent;  then  a  bell  rang  three  peals.  For  an  instant  Arte- 
misia Minichini  dared  to  raise  her  eyes;  she  was  alone,  looking-  at 


J  2 142  MATILDE    SERAO 

the  inert  forms  upon  the  chairs,  looking  boldly  at  the  altar;  after 
which,  overcome  by  childish  fear,  she  dropped  her  eyes  again. 

The  holy  sacrament,  in  its  sphere  of  burnished  gold,  raised 
high  in  the  priest's  hands,  shed  its  blessing  on  those  assembled 
in  the  church. 

"  I  am  dying, '^  gasped   Lucia  Altimare. 

At  the  door  of  the  chapel,  in  the  long  gas-lighted  corri- 
dor, the  teachers  were  waiting  to  muster  the  classes,  and  lead 
them  to  the  refectory.  The  faces  were  still  agitated;  but  the 
little  ones  hopped  and  skipped  about,  and  prattled  together,  and 
pinched  each  other,  in  all  the  joyous  exuberance  of  childhood 
released  from  durance  vile.  As  their  limbs  unstiffened,  they 
jostled  each  other,  laughing  the  while.  The  teachers,  running 
after  some  of  them,  scolding  others,  half  threatening,  half  coax- 
ing, tried  to  range  them  in  a  file  of  two  and  two.  They  began 
with  the  little  ones,  then  came  the  elder  children,  and  after  them 
the  grown-up  girls.     The  corridor  rang  with  voices,  calling:  — 

^*  The  Blues,  where  are  the  Blues  ?  *'  "  Here  they  are,  all  of 
them.**  ^^  Friozzi  is  missing.'*  ^' Where  is  Friozzi  of  the  Blues?** 
^*  Here !  **  ^*  In  line,  and  to  the  left,  if  you  please.  **  ^*  The  Greens, 
in  line  the  Greens,  or  no  fruit  for  dinner  to-morrow.**  ^* Quick! 
the  refectory  bell  has  rung  twice  already.  **  "  Federici  of  the 
Reds,  walk  straight !  **  "  Young  ladies  of  the  White-and-Greens, 
the  bell  is  ringing  for  the  third  time.**  ^^Are  the  Tricolors  all 
here?**  "All.**  "  Casacalenda  is  missing.**  "She  is  coming; 
she    is    still    at    the    organ.**     "Altimare    is   missing.** 

"  Where  is  Altimare  ?  ** 

"She  was  here  just  now, —  she  must  have  disappeared  in  the 
bustle ;   shall  I  look  for  her  ?  ** 

"  Look ;   and  come  to  the  refectory  with  her.  ** 

Then  the  corridor  emptied,  and  the  refectory  filled  with  light 
and  merriment.  With  measured,  almost  rhythmic  step,  Caterina 
went  to  and  fro  in  the  deserted  passages,  seeking  her  friend 
Altimare.  She  descended  to  the  ground  floor,  called  her  twice 
from  the  garden:  no  answer.  Then  she  mounted  the  stairs 
again,  and  entered  the  dormitor^^  The  white  beds  formed  a  line 
under  the  crude  gaslight:  Lucia  was  not  there.  A  shade  of 
anxiety  began  to  dawn  on  Caterina's  rosy  face.  She  passed  by 
the  chapel  twice,  without  going  in.  But  the  third  time,  finding 
the    door   ajar,   she    made    up   her   mind    to    enter.      It    was    dark 


MATILDE    SERAO  13143 

inside.  A  lamp  burning  before  the  Madonna  scarcely  relieved 
the  gloom.  She  passed  on,  half  intimidated  despite  her  well- 
balanced  nerves;  for  she  was  alone  in  the  darkness,  in  church. 
Along  one  of  the  altar  steps,  stretched  out  on  the  crimson 
velvet  carpet,  a  white  form  was  lying,  with  open  arms  and  pallid 
face, —  a  spectral  figure.     It  was  Lucia  Altimare,  who  had  fainted. 

The  fan  of  Artemisia  Minichini,  made  of  a  large  sheet  of 
manuscript,  waved   noisily  to  and  fro. 

^^  Minichini,  you  disturb  the  professor,  ^^  said  Friscia,  the  assist- 
ant teacher,  without  raising  her  eyes  from  her  crochet  work. 

**  Friscia,  you  don't  feel  the  heat  ?  '*  returned  Minichini  inso- 
lently. 

«  No. » 

"  You  are  lucky  to  be  so  insensible.  '* 

In  the  class-room  where  the  Tricolor  young  ladies  were  tak- 
ing their  lesson  in  Italian  history,  it  was  very  hot.  There  were 
two  windows  opening  upon  the  garden,  a  door  leading  to  the 
corridor,  three  rows  of  benches,  and  twenty-four  pupils.  On  a 
high  raised  step  stood  the  table  and  arm-chair  of  the  professor. 
The  fans  waved  hither  and  thither,  some  vivaciously,  some  lan- 
guidly. Here  and  there  a  head  bent  over  its  book  as  if  weighted 
with  drowsiness.  Ginevra  Avigliana  stared  at  the  professor,  nod- 
ding as  if  in  approval,  though  her  face  expressed  entire  absence 
of  mind.  Minichini  had  put  down  her  fan,  opened  her  pince-nez^ 
and  fixed  it  impudently  upon  the  professor's  face.  With  her  nose 
tip-tilted,  and  a  truant  lock  of  hair  curling  on  her  forehoad,  she 
laughed  her  silent  laugh  that  so  irritated  the  teachers.  The  pro- 
fessor explained  the  lesson  in  a  low  voice.  He  was  small,  spare, 
and  pitiable.  He  might  have  been  about  two-and-thirty;  but  his 
emaciated  face,  whose  dark  coloring  had  yellowed  with  the  pal- 
lor of  some  long  illness,  proclaimed  him  a  convalescent.  A  big 
scholarly  head  surmounting  the  body  of  a  dwarf,  a  wild  thick 
mane  in  which  some  white  hairs  were  already  visible,  proud  yet 
shy  eyes,  a  small,  dirty-black  beard,  thinly  planted  towards  the 
thin  cheeks,  completed  his  sad  and  pensive  ugliness. 

He  spoke  without  gesture,  his  eyes  downcast;  occasionally 
his  right  hand  moved  ever  so  slightly.  Its  shadow  on  the  wall 
seemed  to  belong  to  a  skeleton,  it  was  so  thin  and  crooked.  He 
proceeded  slowly,  picking  his  words.  These  girls  intimidated 
him :    some  because  of  their  intelligence,  others  because  of  their 


,,144  MATILDE   SERAO 

impertinence,  others  simply  because  of  their  sex.  His  scholastic 
austerity  was  perturbed  by  their  shining  eyes,  by  their  graceful 
and  youthful  forms;  their  white  garments  formed  a  kind  of  mi- 
rage before  his  eyes.  A  pungent  scent  diffused  itself  throughout 
the  class,  although  perfumes  were  prohibited ;  whence  came  it  ? 
And  at  the  end  of  the  third  bench,  Giovanna  Casacalenda,  who 
paid  not  the  slightest  attention,  sat,  with  half-closed  eyes,  furi- 
ously nibbling  a  rose.  Here  in  front,  Lucia  Altimare,  with  hair 
falling  loose  about  her  neck,  one  arm  hanging  carelessly  over  the 
bench,  resting  her  brow  against  her  hand  and  hiding  her  eyes, 
looked  at  the  professor  through  her  fingers;  every  now  and  then 
she  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  too  crimson  lips,  as  if  to 
mitigate  their  feverishness.  The  professor  felt  upon  him  the 
gaze  that  filtered  through  her  fingers;  while,  without  looking  at 
her,  he  could  see  Giovanna  Casacalenda  tearing  the  rose  to 
pieces  with  her  little  teeth.  He  remained  apparently  imperturba- 
ble, still  discoursing  of  Carmagnola  and  the  conspiracy  of  Fiesco, 
addressing  himself  to  the  tranquil  face  of  Caterina  Spaccapietra, 
who  penciled  rapid  notes  in  her  copy-book. 

^^  What  are  you  writing,  Pentasuglia  ?  ^*  asked  the  teacher 
Friscia,   who  had  been  observing  the  latter  for  some   time. 

"  Nothing,  **  replied  Pentasuglia,  reddening. 

**  Give  me  that  scrap  of  paper. " 

**  What  for  ?     There  is  nothing  on  it.  ^^ 

*^  Give  me  that  scrap  of  paper.  '^ 

^*  It  is  not  a  scrap  of  paper,  *^  said  Minichini  audaciously,  tak- 
ing hold  of  it  as  if  to  hand  it  to  her.  ^*  It  is  one,  two,  three, 
four,  five,  twelve  useless  fragments — '* 

To  save  her  schoolfellow,  she  had  torn  it  to  shreds.  There 
was  silence  in  the  class:  they  trembled  for  Minichini.  The 
teacher  bent  her  head,  tightened  her  thin  lips,  and  picked  up  her 
crochet  again  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  The  professor  ap- 
peared to  take  no  notice  of  the  incident,  as  he  looked  through 
his  papers;  but  his  mind  must  have  been  inwardly  disturbed.  A 
flush  of  youthful  curiosity  made  him  wonder  what  those  girls 
were  thinking  of;  what  they  scribbled  in  their  little  notes;  for 
whom  their  smiles  were  meant,  as  they  looked  at  the  plaster  bust 
of  the  King;  what  they  thought  when  they  drew  the  tricolor 
scarves  round  their  waists.  But  the  ghastly  face  and  false  gray 
eyes  of  Cherubina  Friscia,  the  governess,  frightened  him 

"Avigliana,  say  the  lesson.-*^ 


I 


MATILDE    SERAO  13145 

The  girl  rose,  and  began  rapidly  to  speak  of  the  Viscontis, 
like  a  well-trained  parrot.  When  asked  to  give  a  few  historical 
comments,  she  made  no  reply:  she  had  not  understood  her  own 
words. 

^*  Minichini,  say  the  lesson.  '^ 

*^  Professor,  I  don't  know  it. " 

«And  why  ? » 

"  Yesterday  was  Sunday,  and  we  went  out,  so  I  could  not 
study.  '* 

The  professor  made  a  note  in  the  register;  the  young  lady 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Casacalenda  ?  ** 

This  one  made  no  answer.  She  was  gazing  with  intense  ear- 
nestness at  her  white  hands,  —  hands  that  looked  as  if  they  were 
modeled  in  wax. 

"  Casacalenda,  will  you  say  the  lesson  ?  ^^ 

Opening  her  great  eyes  as  if  she  were  dazed,  she  began, 
stumbling  at  every  word,  puzzled,  making  one  mistake  upon 
another;  the  professor  prompted,  and  she  repeated,  with  the  win- 
ning air  of  a  strong,  beautiful  young  animal;  she  neither  knew 
nor  understood  nor  was  ashamed  —  maintaining  her  sculpturesque 
placidity,  moistening  her  rustic  Diana-like  lips,  contemplating  her 
pink  nails.  The  professor  bent  his  head  in  displeasure,  not  dar- 
ing to  scold  that  splendid  stupid  creature,  whose  voice  had  such 
enchanting  modulations. 

He  made  two  or  three  other  attempts;  but  the  class,  owing 
to  the  preceding  holiday,  had  not  studied..  This  was  the  expla- 
nation of  the  flowers,  the  perfumes,  and  the  little  notes:  the 
twelve  hours'  liberty  had  upset  the  girls.  Their  eyes  were  full 
of  visions;  they  had  seen  the  world  yesterday.  He  drew  himself 
together,  perplexed;  a  sense  of  mingled  shame  and  respect  kept 
every  mouth  closed.  How  he  loved  that  science  of  history!  His 
critical  acumen  measured  its  widest  horizons;  his  was  a  vast 
ideal,  and  he  suffered  in  liaving  to  offer  crumbs  of  it  to  those 
pretty,  aristocratic,  indolent  girls,  who  would  have  none  of  it. 
Still  young,  he  had  grown  old  and  gray  in  arduous  study;  and 
now,  behold — gay  and  careless  youth,  choosing  rather  to  live 
than  to  know,  rose  in  defiance  against  him.  Bitterness  welled  up 
to  his  lips,  and  went  out  towards  those  creatures,  thrilling  with 
life  and  contemptuous  of  his  ideal;  bitterness  in  that  he  could  not 
like   them    be   beautiful   and  vigorous,  and  revel  in  heedlessness, 


13T46  MATILDE   SERAO 

and  be  beloved.  Anguish  rushed  through  his  veins,  from  his 
heart,  and  poisoned  his  brain,  that  he  should  have  to  humiliate 
his  knowledge  before  those  frivolous,  scarcely  human  girls.  Biit 
the  gathering  storm  was  held  back;  and  nothing  of  it  was  per- 
ceptible save  a  slight  flush  on  his  meagre  cheek  bones. 

"Since  none  of  you  have  studied,*^  he  said  slowly,  in  a  low 
voice,  "none  of  you  can  have  done  the  composition.'* 

"Altimare  and  I  have  done  it,**  answered  Caterina  Spaccapie- 
tra.  "  We  did  not  go  home,  **  she  added  apologetically,  to  avoid 
offending  her  friends. 

"Then  you  read,  Spaccapietra :  the  subject  is,  I  think,  Beatrice 
di  Tenda.** 

"Yes:   Beatrice  di  Tenda.** 

Spaccapietra  stood  up  and  read,  in  her  pure,  slow  voice:  — 

"Ambition  had  ever  been  the  ruling  passion  of  the  Viscontis  of 
Milan,  who  shrank  from  naught  that  could  minister  to  the  mainte- 
nance of  their  sovereign  power.  Filippo  Maria,  son  of  Gian  Galeazzo, 
who  had  succeeded  his  brother  Gian  Galeazzo,  differed  in  no  way 
from  his  predecessors.  For  the  love  of  gain,  this  prince  espoused 
Beatrice  di  Tenda,  the  widow  of  a  condottiere  (a  soldier  of  fortune); 
a  virtuous  and  accomplished  woman  of  mature  age.  She  brought 
her  husband  in  dowry  the  dominions  of  Tortona,  Novara,  Vercelli, 
and  Alessandria;  but  he  tired  of  her  as  soon  as  he  had  satisfied  his 
thirst  for  wealth.  He  caused  her  to  be  accused  of  unfaithfulness  to 
her  wifely  duty,  with  a  certain  Michele  Orombello,  a  simple  squire. 
Whether  the  accusation  was  false  or  made  in  good  faith,  whether 
the  witnesses  were  to  be  relied  upon  or  not,  Beatrice  di  Tenda  was 
declared  guilty,  and  with  Michele  Orombello  mounted  the  scaffold  in 
the  year  14 18,  which  was  the  forty-eighth  of  her  life, — she  having 
been  born  in    1370,*^ 

Caterina  had  folded  up  her  paper,  and  the  professor  was  still 
waiting;    two  minutes  elapsed 

"  Is  there  no  more  ?  ** 

«  No.  ** 

«  Really,  is  that  all  ?  ** 

"All.** 

"  It  is  a  very  meagre  composition,  Spaccapietra.  It  is  but 
the  bare  narrative  of  the  historical  fact,  as  it  stands  in  the  text- 
book. Does  not  the  hapless  fate  of  Beatrice  inspire  you  with  any 
sympathy  ?  ** 


I 


MATILDE   SERAO  13M7 

<*  I  don't  know,**  murmured  the  young  scholar,  pale  with  emo- 
tion. 

"  Yet  you  are  a  woman.  It  so  happens  that  I  had  chosen  a 
theme  which  suggests  the  manifestation  of  a  noble  impulse;  say 
of  pity,  or  contempt  for  the  false  accusation.  But  in  this  form  the 
story  turns  to  mere  chronology.  The  composition  is  too  meagre. 
You  have  no  imagination,   Spaccapietra.  ** 

*^  Yes,  professor,  *^  replied  the  young  girl  submissively,  as  she 
took  her  seat  again,  while  tears  welled  to  her  eyes. 

^*  Let  us  hear  Altimare.'* 

Lucia  appeared  to  start  out  of  a  lethargy.  She  sought  for 
some  time  among  her  papers,  with  an  ever  increasing  expres- 
sion of  weariness.  Then,  in  a  weak  inaudible  voice,  she  began 
to  read,  slowly,  dragging  the  syllables,  as  if  overpowered  by  an 
invincible  lassitude. 

"  Louder,  Altimare.  ** 

"  I  cannot,  professor.  ** 

And  she  looked  at  him  with  such  melancholy  eyes  that  he 
repented  of  having  made  the  remark.  Again  she  touched  her 
parched  lips  with  her  handkerchief,  and  continued:  — 

**  .  .  .  through  the  evil  lust  of  power.  He  was  Filippo  Maria 
Visconti ;  of  a  noble  presence,  with  the  eye  of  a  hawk,  of  powerful 
build,  and  ever  foremost  in  the  saddle.  The  maidens  who  watched 
him  pass,  clad  in  armor  under  the  velvet  coat,  on  the  breastpiece  of 
which  was  broidered  the  wily,  fascinating  serpent,  the  crest  of  the 
lords  of  Visconti,  sighed  as  they  exclaimed,  <  How  handsome  he  is !  * 
But  under  this  attractive  exterior  —  as  is  ever  the  case  in  this  mel- 
ancholy world,  where  appearance  is  but  part  of  the  mise-en-scene  of 
life  —  he  hid  a  depraved  soul.  O  gentle,  loving  women,  trust  not 
him  who  flutters  round  you  with  courteous  manner,  and  words  that 
charm,  and  protestations  of  exquisite  sentiment:  he  deceives  you. 
All  is  vanity,  all  is  corruption,  all  is  ashes!  None  learnt  this  lesson 
better  than  the  hapless  Beatrice  di  Tenda,  whose  tale  I  am  about  to 
tell  you. 

*'This  youthful  widow  was  of  unblemished  character  and  matchless 
beauty:  fair  was  her  hair  of  spun  gold,  soft  were  her  eyes  of  a  blue 
worthy  to  reflect  the  firmament;  her  skin  was  as  dazzling  white  as 
the  petals  of  a  lily.  Her  first  marriage  with  Facino  Cane  could  not 
have  been  a  happy  one.  He,  a  soldier  of  fortune, —  fierce,  blood- 
thirsty, trained  to  the  arms,  the  wine,  and  the  rough  speech  of  mar- 
tial camps, —  could  scarcely  have  been  a  man  after  Beatrice's  heart 
Woe  to  those  marriages  in  which  one  consort  neither  understands  nor 


I3I48 


MATILDE    SERAO 


appreciates  the  mind  of  the  other.  Woe  to  those  marriages  in  which 
the  man  ignores  the  mystic  poetry,  the  mysterious  sentiments,  of  the 
feminine  heart!  These  be  the  unblessed  unions  with  which,  alas! 
our  corrupt  and  suffering  modern  society  teems.  Facino  Cane  died. 
His  widow  shed  bitter  tears  over  him ;  but  her  virgin  heart  beat 
quicker  when  she  first  met  the  valorous  yet  inalefic  Filippo  Maria 
Visconti.  Her  face  turned  as  pale  as  Luna's  when  she  drags  her 
weary  way  along  the  starred  empyrean.  And  she  loved  him  with  all 
the  ardor  of  her  stored-up  youth,  with  the  chastity  of  a  pious  soul 
loving  the  Creator  in  the  created,  blending  Divine  with  human  love. 
Beatrice,  pure  and  beautiful,  wedded  Filippo  Maria  for  love :  Filippo 
Maria,  black  soul  that  he  was,  wedded  Beatrice  for  greed  of  money. 
For  a  short  time  the  august  pair  were  happy  on  their  ducal  throne. 
But  the  hymeneal  roses  were  worm-eaten :  in  the  dewy  grass  lay 
hidden  the  perfidious  serpent,  perfidious  emblem  of  the  most  per- 
fidious Visconti.  No  sooner  had  he  obtained  possession  of  the  riches 
of  Beatrice  than  Filippo  Maria  wearied  of  her,  as  might  be  expected 
of  a  man  of  so  hard  a  heart  and  of  such  depraved  habits.  He  had 
besides  formed  an  infamous  connection  with  a  certain  Agnese  del 
Maino,  one  of  the  most  vicious  of  women;  and  more  than  ever  he 
was  possessed  of  the   desire  to  rid  himself  of  his  wife. 

<<  There  lived  at  the  court  of  the  Visconti  a  simple  squire  named 
Michele  Orombello,  a  young  troubadour,  a  poet,  who  had  dared  to 
raise  his  eyes  to  his  august  mistress.  But  the  noble  woman  did  not 
reciprocate  his  passion,  although  the  faithlessness  and  treachery  of 
Filippo  Maria  caused  her  the  greatest  unhappiness,  and  almost  justi- 
fied reprisals :  she  was  simply  courteous  to  her  unfortunate  adorer. 
When  Filippo  Maria  saw  how  matters  stood,  he  at  once  threw 
Michele  Orombello  and  his  chaste  consort  into  prison,  accusing  them 
of  treason.  Torture  was  applied  to  Beatrice,  who  bore  it  bravely 
and  maintained  her  innocence.  Michele  Orombello,  being  younger 
and  perchance  weaker  to  combat  pain,  or  because  he  was  treacher- 
ously advised  that  he  might  thereby  save  Beatrice,  made  a  false 
confession.  The  judges,  vile  slaves  of  Filippo  Maria,  and  trem- 
blingly submissive  to  his  will,  condemned  that  most  ill-starred  of 
women  and  her  miserable  lover  to  die  on  the  scaffold.  The  saintly 
woman  ascended  it  with  resignation;  embracing  the  crucifix  whereon 
the  Redeemer  agonized  and  died  for  our  sins.  Then,  perceiving  the 
young  squire,  who,  weeping  desperately,  went  with  her  to  death,  she 
cried:  <I  forgive  thee,  Michele  Orombello;^  and  he  made  answer:  ^I 
proclaim  thee  the  purest  of  wives !^  But  it  availed  not;  the  prince's 
will  must  needs  be  carried  out;  the  axe  struck  off  the  squire's  dark 
head.  Beatrice  cried,  ^  Gesu  Maria !  >  and  the  axe  felled  the  blonde 
head  too.  A  pitiable  spectacle,  and  full  of  horror  for  those  as- 
sembled!     Yet   none    dared    to   proclaim    the    infamy    of    the    mighty 


MATILDE   SERAO 


t3U9 


Filippo  Maria  Visconti.  Thus  it  ever  is  in  life:  virtue  is  oppressed, 
and  vice  triumphs.  Only  before  the  Eternal  Judge  is  justice;  only 
before  that  God  of  mercy  who  has  said,  <I  am  the  resurrection  and 
the  life.>» 

A  profound  silence  ensued.  The  pupils  were  embarrassed, 
and  looked  furtively  at  each  other.  Caterina  gazed  at  Lucia 
with  frightened,  astonished  eyes.  Lucia  remained  standing,  pale, 
panting,  contemptuous,  with  twitching  lips.  The  professor,  deep 
in  thought,  held  his  peace. 

^^  The  composition  is  very  long,  Altimare,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  You  have   too  much  imagination.  ^' 

Then  silence  one  more  —  and  the  dry,  malicious,  hissing  voice 
of  Cherubina  Friscia,  ^^  Give  me  that  composition,  Altimare.'* 

All  trembled,  seized  by  an  unknown  terror. 


THE   SCHOOLGIRLS'   VOW 
From  <  Fantasy  > 

THERE  was  only  one  flickering  jet  of  gas  burning  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  dormitory  that  contained  the  little  white  beds 
in  which  the  Tricolors  passed  the  last  night  of  their  school 
days.  There  had  been  short  dialogues,  interrupted  by  sighs,  mel- 
ancholy reflections,  and  regrets,  until  a  late  hour.  They  would 
have  liked  to  sit  up  all  night  to  indulge  in  their  grief.  But 
fatigue  had  melted  their  project  away.  When  they  could  hold 
out  no  longer,  sleep  mastered  those  restless  beings,  weary  with 
weeping.  A  languid  **  Good -night  ^'  was  audible  here  and  there; 
gradually  the  irregular  breathing  had  subsided,  and  the  sobs  had 
died  out.  Complete  repose  reigned  in  the  dormitory  of  the  Tri- 
colors. 

When  the  great  clock  struck  two  after  midnight,  Lucia  Alti- 
mare  opened  her  eyes.  She  had  not  slept;  devoured  by  im- 
patience, she  had  watched.  Without  rising,  she  gently  and 
noiselessly  took  her  clothes  from  the  chair  near  her  bed  and  put 
them  on,  thrust  her  bare  feet  into  her  slippers,  and  then  crept 
out  of  bed.  She-  moved  like  a  shadow,  with  infinite  precaution, 
casting  in  passing  an  oblique  glance  at  the  beds  where  her  com- 
panions slept.  Now  and  again  she  looked  towards  the  end  of  the 
hall  where  Cherubina  Friscia  lay.  There  was  no  danger.  Lucia 
passed  like  a  tall  white  phantom,  with  burning  eyes,  through  the 
heavy  gloom  to  Caterina's  bedside. 


X^ljO  MATILDE    SERAO 

Her  friend  slept  quietly,  composedly,  breathing  like  a  child. 
She  bent  down  and  whispered  close  to  her  ear:  — 

"  Caterina,  Caterina !  '* 

Caterina  opened  her  eyes  in  alarm;  a  sign  from  Lucia  froze 
the  cry  that  rose  to  her  lips.  The  surprise  on  her  face  spoke 
for  her,  and  questioned  her  friend. 

"If  you  love  me,  Caterina,  dress  and  follow  me." 

"  Where  are  we  going  ? "  the  other  ventured  to  ask,  hesitat- 
ingly. 

"  If  yOu  love  me  —  '^ 

Caterina  no  longer  questioned  her.  She  dressed  herself  in 
silence,  looking  now  and  then  at  Lucia,  who  stood  there  like  a 
statue,  waiting.  When  Caterina  was  ready,  she  took  her  by  the 
hand  to  lead  her. 

"  Fear  nothing, "  breathed  Lucia,  who  could  feel  the  coldness 
of  her  hand.  They  glided  dow^n  the  passage  that  divided  the 
beds  from  the  rest  of  the  room.  Artemisia  Minichini  was  the 
only  one  who  turned  in  her  bed,  and  appeared  for  a  moment  to 
have  opened  her  eyes.  They  closed  again;  but  perhaps  she  saw 
through  her  lids.  No  other  sign  of  waking.  They  shrank  closer 
together  when  they  passed  the  last  bed,  Friscia's,  and  stooped  to 
make  themselves  smaller.  That  moment  seemed  to  them  like  a 
century.  When  they  got  into  the  corridor,  Caterina  squeezed 
Lucia's  hand,  as  if  they  had  passed  through  a  great  danger. 

"  Come,  come,  come ! "  murmured  the  siren  voice  of  Lucia,  and 
suddenly  they  stopped  before  a  door.  Lucia  dropped  Caterina' s 
hand  and  inserted  a  key  into  the  keyhole;  the  door  creaked  as 
it  flew  open.  A  gust  of  chill  air  struck  the  two  young  girls;  a 
faint  diffuse  light  broke  in  upon  them.  A  lamp  was  burning 
before  the  image  of  the  Virgin.  They  were  in  the  chapel. 
Calmly  Lucia  knelt  before  the  altar,  and  lighted  two  candelabra. 
Then  she  turned  to  Caterina,  who,  dazed  by  the  light,  was  catch- 
ing her  breath,  and  once  more  said,   "Come," 

They  advanced  towards  the  altar.  In  the  little  whitewashed 
church,  with  two  high  windows  open  on  the  country,  a  pleasant 
dampness  tempered  the  heat  of  the  August  night.  The  faintest 
perfume  of  incense  still  clung  to  the  air.  The  church  was  so 
placid  and  restful,  the  candelabra  in  their  places,  the  tapers  extin- 
guished, the  sacrament  shut  away  in  its  pyx,  the  altar-cloth  turned 
up  to  cover  it.  But  a  quaintly  fashioned  silver  arabesque,  behind 
which  Lucia  had  lighted  a  taper,  projected  on  the  wall  the  profile 
of  a  strange  monstrous  beast.     Caterina  stood  there  in  a  dream. 


MATILDE    SERAO  13151 

with  her  hand  still  clasped  in  Lucia's,  whose  fever  it  had  caught. 
Even  at  that  unusual  hour,  in  the  dead  of  night,  she  no  longer 
asked  herself  what  strange  rite  was  to  be  solemnized  in  that 
chapel  illuminated  only  for  them.  She  was  conscious  of  a  vague 
tremor,  of  a  weight  in  the  head,  and  a  longing  for  sleep;  she 
would  fain  have  been  back  in  the  dormitory,  with  her  cheek  on 
her  pillow.  But  like  one  who  dreams  of  having  the  well-defined 
will  to  do  a  thing,  and  yet  while  the  dream  lasts  has  neither  the 
speech  to  express  nor  the  energy  to  accomplish  it,  she  was  con- 
scious, between  sleeping  and  waking,  of  the  torpor  of  her  own 
mind.  She  looked  around  her  as  one  in  a  stupor,  neither  under- 
standing nor  caring  to  understand.  From  time  to  time  her  mouth 
twitched  with  an  imperceptible  yawn.  Lucia's  hands  were  crossed 
over  her  bosom,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  Madonna.  No  sound 
escaped  her  half-open  lips.  Caterina  leant  forward  to  observe 
her;  in  the  vague  turn  of  thought  that  went  round  and  round 
in  her  sleepy  brain,  she  asked  herself  if  she  were  dreaming,  and 
Lucia  a  phantom.  She  passed  one  hand  across  her  brow,  either 
to  awake  herself  or  to  dispel  the  hallucination. 

*  Listen,  Caterina,  and  try  and  comprehend  me  better  than  I 
know  how  to  express  myself.     Do  you  give  your  whole  attention  ? " 

*Yes,'^  saici  the  other  with  an  effort. 

"You  alone  know  how  we  have  loved  each  other  here.  After 
God,  the  Madonna  Addolorata,  and  my  father,  I  have  loved  you, 
Caterina.  You  have  saved  my  life;  I  can  never  forget  it.  But 
for  you  I  should  have  gone  to  burn  in  hell,  where  suicides  must 
eternally  suffer.  I  thank  you,  dear  heart.  You  believe  in  my 
gratitude  ?  '* 

*  Yes,  >'  said  Caterina,  opening  wide  her  eyes  the  better  to 
understand  her. 

**  Now  we  who  so  love  each  other  must  part.  You  go  to  the 
left,  I  to  the  right.  You  are  to  be  married:  I  know  not  what 
will  happen  to  me.  Shall  we  meet  again  ?  I  know  not.  Shall 
we  again  come  together  in  the  future  ?  Who  knows  ?  Do  you 
know  ?  '* 

«No,»  replied  Caterina,   starting. 

"Well,  then,  I  propose  to  you  to  conquer  time  and  space,  men 
and  circumstances,  should  they  stand  in  the  way  of  our  affection. 
From  afar,  howsoever  we  may  be  separated,  let  us  love  each 
other  as  we  do  to-day,  as  we  did  yesterday.      Do  you  promise  ? " 

"  I  promise.** 


I2IC2  MATILDE    SERAO 

^'  The  Madonna  hears  us,  Caterina.  Do  you  promise  with  a 
vow,   with  an  oath  ?  '* 

"  With  a  vow,  with  an  oath,  '*  repeated  Caterina  monotonously 
like  an  echo. 

"And  I  too  promise  that  no  one  shall  ever  by  word  or  deed 
lessen  this  our  steadfast  friendship.     Do  you  promise  ?  ^* 

*^  I  promise.** 

"And  I  too  promise  that  neither  shall  ever  seek  to  do  ill  to 
the  other,  or  willingly  cause  her  sorrow,  or  ever,  ever  betray  her. 
Promise:  the  Madonna  hears  us,** 

"  I  promise.** 

"I  swear  it, —  that  always,  whatever  befalls,  one  shall  try  to 
help  the  other.     Say,  do  you  promise  ?  ** 

"  I  promise.  ** 

"And  I  too.  Besides,  that  either  will  be  ever  ready  to  sacri- 
fice her  own  happiness  to  that  of  the  other.     Swear  it;  swear!** 

Caterina  thought  for  an  instant.  Was  she  dreaming  a  strange 
dream,  or  was  she  binding  herself  for  life?  "I  swear,**  she  said 
firmly. 

"I  swear,**  reiterated  Lucia.  "The  Madonna  has  heard.  Woe 
to  her  who  breaks  her  vow!     God  will  punish  her.** 

Caterina  bowed  her  assent.  Lucia  took  her  ro§ary  from  her 
pocket.  It  was  a  string  of  lapis-lazuli  bound  together  by  little 
silver  links.  From  it  depended  a  small  silver  crucifix,  and  a 
little  gold  medal  on  which  was  engraved  the  image  of  the  Ma> 
donna  della  Saletta.     She  kissed  it. 

"We  will  break  this  rosary  in  two  equal  parts,  Caterina. 
Half  of  it  you  shall  take  with  you,  the  other  half  I  will  keep. 
It  will  be  our  keepsake,  to  remind  us  of  our  vow.  When  I  pray 
at  night,  I  shall  remember.  You  too  will  remember  me  in  your 
prayers.  The  missing  half  will  remind  you  of  your  absent 
friend.** 

And  taking  up  the  rosary  between  them,  they  pulled  hard 
at  it  from  either  side.  Lucia  kept  the  half  with  the  crucifix, 
Caterina  the  half  with  the  medal.  The  two  girls  embraced. 
Then  they  heard  the  clock  strike  three.  When  silence  reigned 
once  more  in  the  college  and  in  the  empty  chapel,  both  knelt 
down  on  the  steps  of  the  altar,  crossed  their  hands  on  their 
bosoms,  and  with  closed  eyes  repeated  in  unison  — 

"Our  Father  —  ** 

Translation  of  Henry  Harland. 


MARIE    DE    SEVIGNE 


>3i53 


MADAME   DE   SEVIGN6 

(1627-1696) 

jMONG  the  great  writers  of  the  world,  Madame  de  Sevign6  is 
perhaps  the  only  one  except  Lady  Nairne  whose  purely  lit- 
erary fame  was  entirely  posthumous.  It  is  true  that  when 
Louis  XIV.  became  possessed  of  a  number  of  her  letters,  upon  the 
arrest  of  her  friend  Fouquet  the  Superintendent  of  Finance,  he  pro- 
claimed that  their  style  was  matchless  in  grace  of  thought  and 
expression;  and  the  little  court  world  which  took  from  the  King  its 
opinions,  on  matters  of  taste  as  in  so  much  else,  henceforth  placed 
Madame  de  Sevigne  at  the  head  of  that  group  of  charming  women 
who  wrote  charming  letters  in  seventeenth-century  France.  Her  sub- 
sequent correspondence  was  frequently  handed  about  from  friend  to 
friend;  but  the  interest  it  excited  depended  quite  as  much  upon  the 
amusing  news  of  the  court  and  the  salons  which  it  contained,  as 
upon  the  style  in  which  the  agreeable  gossip  was  related.  That  in 
later  times  her  name  should  stand  high  in  the  literature  of  France, 
and  her  house  be  visited  as  the  shrine  of  her  gracious  memory,  was 
anticipated  by  none  of, her  contemporaries;  least  of  all  by  herself. 

Marie  de  Rabutin-Chantal,  the  only  child  of  Celse  Benigne  de 
Rabutin,  Baron  de  Chantal,  and  of  Marie  de  Coulanges  his  wife,  was 
born  in  the  Chateau  de  Bourbilly,  Burgundy,  on  February  5th,  1627. 
Left  an  orphan  when  five  years  old,  she  was  consigned  to  the  care 
of  her  uncle  Philippe  de  Coulanges;  and  upon  his  death  in  1636  she 
became  the  charge  of  his  brother  Christophe  de  Coulanges,  Abbe  de 
Livry.  To  the  latter  she  was  indebted  for  her  careful  education  under 
the  best  masters  of  the  day, —  among  them  Chapelain  and  Menage. 
Of  the  training  received  from  <^  Le  Bien-bon,>^  as  she  termed  her 
uncle,  she  says:  "I  owed  to  him  the  sweetness  and  repose  of  my 
life;  all  my  gayety,  my  good-humor,  my  vivacity.  In  a  word,  he  has 
made  me  what  I  am,  such  as  you  have  seen  me;  and  worthy  of  your 
esteem  and  of  your  friendship.'* 

When  sixteen  years  old,  j\Iarie  de  Rabutin-Chantal  married  Henri., 
Marquis  de  Sevigne,- — a  profligate  young  noble  of  a  distinguished 
Breton  family.  It  was  said  of  him,  **  He  loved  everywhere;  but  never 
anything  so  amiable  as  his  own  wife.'*  He  was  killed  in  165 1  in  a 
duel,  undertaken  in  defense  of  an  unworthy  name,  leaving  his  wife 
with  a  young  son  and  daughter.  Madame  de  Sevigne  spent  the  early 
years   of   her   widowhood  with   her  children   at   "  Les   Rochers'*  —  he? 


j-jr.  MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE 

husband's  estate  in  Brittany  —  returning  to  Paris  in  1654.  Charles  de 
Sevigne,  her  eldest  child,  inherited  his  father's  pleasure-loving  nature; 
and  during  the  years  of  his  early  manhood  caused  his  mother  much 
anxiety.  On  resigning  his  commission  in  the  army,  he  retired  to 
his  estate  in  Brittany,  married  a  good  woman,  became  "  serious,  ^>  and 
spent  the  rest  of  his  years  in  the  study  of  the  Fathers  and  of  Horace. 

When  Madame  de  Sevigne  presented  her  daughter  Frangoise  at 
court,  this  « prettiest  girl  in  France  >^  seemed  destined  to  set  the 
world  on  fire.  On  her  the  affection  of  the  mother's  heart,  which  had 
met  disappointment  in  so  many  other  directions,  was  lavished.  Made- 
moiselle de  Sevigne  married  in  1669  Frangois  Adhemar  de  Monteil, 
Comte  de  Grignan;  and  the  following  year  went  with  him  to  Provence, 
where  he  exercised  viceregal  functions, — nominally  during  the  minor- 
ity of  the  Due  de  Vendome,  but  as  the  duke  never  in  fact  assumed 
authority,  the  count  was  the  actual  ruler  of  the  province  for  forty 
years.  From  the  moment  when,  on  entering  her  daughter's  vacant 
room,  Madame  de  Sevigne's  grief  was  renewed  at  sight  of  the  famil- 
iar objects,  relief  was  found  only  in  pouring  forth  her  heart  in  con- 
stant letters  to  Madame  de  Grignan,  which  every  courier  carried  to 
Provence.  The  wonderful  series  is  as  vividly  fresh  now  as  then, 
when  by  the  direct  aid  of  Providence  and  the  postal  service  of  the 
day  they  reached  Chateau  Grignan  on  its  heights  above  the  sea. 

The  letters  were  full  of  domestic  and  public  news:  the  details  of 
daily  life,  the  books  the  writer  had  read,  the  people  she  had  met; 
what  was  said,  thought,  and  suspected  in  the  world  of  Paris.  Very 
much  too  of  contemporary  history  is  woven  into  the  correspondence. 
The  letters  addressed  in  1664  to  M.  de  Pomponne,  the  former  minis- 
ter of  Louis  XIV.,  then  living  in  exile  on  his  estate,  contain  the 
most  vivid  and  detailed  accoitnt  of  the  trial  of  Superintendent  Fou- 
quet  which  remains  to  us.  In  them  the  course  of  the  proceedings 
is  daily  related,  the  character  of  witnesses  and  judges  discussed, 
the  nature  of  the  testimony  weighed,  and  the  hopes  and  anxieties  of 
the  prisoner's  friends  communicated.  There  are  among  the  collection 
letters  to  other  friends;  but  the  mass  of  the  correspondence  was 
addressed  to  Madame  de  Grignan,  and  it  contains  a  detailed  account 
of  the  mother's  life  from   1670  to   1696. 

Madame  de  Sevigne  died  at  Chateau  Grignan,  on  April  i8th,  1696, 
and  was  buried  in  the  church  of  Grignan.  Her  tomb  was  undisturbed 
during  the  storms  of  the  Revolution,  and  may  still  be  seen. 

Unauthorized  editions  of  a  portion  of  the  letters  of  Madame  de 
Sevigne  were  published  in  1726;  but  so  incomplete  and  full  of  errors 
were  the  collections,  that  her  granddaughter,  Madame  de  Simiane,  was 
forced  very  reluctantly  to  consent  to  the  issuing  of  the  correspond- 
ence in  a  more   correct   form  and   under  her   own  supervision.     She 


MADAME    DE    SEVIGNE  ^3^55 

disliked  the  publicity  thus  given  to  private  letters,  however,  believ- 
ing that  ^*  one  should  be  at  liberty  to  be  witty  with  impunity  in  one's 
family.**  Even  this  last-named  collection  was  not  complete;  and  dili- 
gent research  has  subsequently  increased  the  number  of  letters,  and 
given  rise  to  numerous  editions  of  the  entire  correspondence.  The 
one  printed  in  Paris  in  1823,  and  edited  by  M.  Gault  de  Saint-Germain, 
contained  letters  from  many  of  Madame  de  Sevigne's  friends,  and  has 
very  full  biographical  and  critical  notices. 

Into  the  literary  work  of  Madame  de  Sevigne  no  moral  purpose 
obtrudes,  although  it  unconsciously  reveals  not  only  her  intellectual 
power  but  also  the  strongly  ethical  bent  of  her  character.  It  had 
no  other  inspiration  than  the  passion  of  motherhood,  which  was  her 
controlling  impulse ;  was  conceived  without  reference  to  audience 
or  critics,  nor  with  thought  of  inspection  by  other  eyes  than  those  of 
her  daughter.  She  wrote  of  the  world,  but  not  for  the  world;  to 
amuse  Madame  de  Grignan,  and  relieve  her  own  heart  by  express- 
ing the  love  and  longing  which  filled  it.  The  correspondence  is  full 
of  wit,  of  humor,  of .  epigram ;  not  designed  to  dazzle  or  attract,  but 
after  the  manner  of  a  highly  endowed  and  highly  cultured  nature. 
Her  style,  formed  under  the  guidance  of  authors  of  distinction,  has 
become  a  model  for  imitation  throughout  the  world.  Her  language  is 
pure  in  form  and  graceful  in  expression.  It  is  true  that  in  the  free- 
dom of  family  correspondence,  she  occasionally  used  provincial  terms; 
but  they  were  always  borrowed  with  due  acknowledgment  of  their 
source, —  not  as  being  a  part  of  the  personal  appanage  of  the  writer. 
It  was  said  of  her:  <<  You  don't  read  her  letters,  you  think  she  is 
speaking;  you  listen  to  her."  To  her  friends  so  much  of  Madame 
de  Sevigne's  personal  attraction  was  associated  with  what  she  wrote, 
that  it  is  not  strange  they  could  not  dissever  them.  Even  after  the 
lapse  of  two  centuries,  that  personal  grace  and  charm  is  so  present 
in  the  written  speech,  that  we  can  believe  in  what  was  said  of  her 
by  her  cousin  Count  Bussy  de  Rabutin :  — 

"No  one  was  ever  weary  in  her  society.  She  was  one  of  those 
people  who  should  never  have  died;  as  there  are  others  who  should 
never  have  been  born.** 


TO   HER    COUSIN,  M.  DE   COULANGES 

Paris,  Monday,  December  15th,   1670. 

I    AM    going   to    tell    you    something   most    astonishing,  most   sur- 
prising, most   miraculous,  most  triumphant,  most  bewildering, 
most    unheard-of,    most     singular,    most    extraordinary,    most 
incredible,   most   unexpected,   most   important,   most    insignificant, 


I3I56 


MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE 


most  rare,  most  ordinary,  most  startling,  most  secret  (until  to-day), 
most  brilliant,  most  enviable;  finally,  something  of  which  past  ages 
furnish  only  one  example,  and  that  example  is  not  exactly  similar. 
Something  which  we  in  Paris  can  hardly  credit,  and  how  then 
can  it  be  believed  at  Lyons  ?  Something  which  makes  all  the 
world  cry  ^*  Bless  me !  ^^  vSomething  which  overwhelms  Madame 
de  Rohan  and  Madame  d'Hauterive  with  joy.*  Something,  finally, 
which  is  to  happen  on  Sunday,  when  those  who  will  see  it  will 
think  they  are  blind.  Something  which  will  happen  on  Sunday, 
and  yet  by  Monday  may  not  be  done.  I  can't  make  up  my 
mind  to  tell  you, —  you  must  divine  it.  I'll  give  you  three 
guesses.  Do  you  give  it  up?  Well,  then,  I  must  tell  you:  M.  de 
Lauzun^  is  to  marry  on  Sunday,' at  the  Louvre, —  can  you  imagine 
whom?  I'll  give  you  three  guesses,  I'll  give  you  ten,  I'll  give 
you  a  hundred !  I  know  Madame  de  Coulanges  will  say,  ^'  That 
is  not  ditecult  to  imagine.  It  is  Mademoiselle  de  La  Valliere.** 
Not  at  all,  madame.  ^*  Is  it  then  Mademoiselle  de  Retz  ?  *^  By 
no  means;  you  are  far  astray.  ^^Ah,  yes;  we  are  stupid:  it  must 
be  Mademoiselle  Colbert!*^  you  say.  Still  less.  ^^  It  certainly 
is  then  Mademoiselle  de  Crequi  ?  '^  You  are  not  right  yet.  I 
shall  have  to  tell  you.  He  is  to  marry  —  on  Sunday  at  the 
Louvre,  by  permission  of  the  King  —  Mademoiselle  —  Mademoi- 
selle de  —  Mademoiselle  —  now  tell  me  her  name!  On  my  word  — 
on  my  sacred  word  —  on  my  word  of  honor —  Mademoiselle! 
La  Grande  Mademoiselle;  Mademoiselle  the  daughter  of  the  late 
Monsieur^;  Mademoiselle  the  granddaughter  of  Henry  the  Fourth; 
Mademoiselle  d'Eu;  Mademoiselle  de  Dombes;  Mademoiselle  de 
Montpensier;  Mademoiselle  d'Orleans;  Mademoiselle,  first  cousin 
to  the  King;  Mademoiselle,  destined  to  a  throne;  Mademoiselle, 
the  only  match  in  France  who  was  worthy  of  Monsieur*!  This 
is  a  pretty  subject  for  reflection!  If  you  exclaim,  if  you  are 
beside  yourself,  if  you  say  I  am  telling  a  lie,  that  it  is  all  false, 
that  I  am  making  fun  of  you,  that  it  is  a  joke  and  rather  a  stu- 
pid one  too, — we  shall  agree  that  you  are  right:  we  have  said 
the  same  thing.  Adieu:  the  letters  which  go  by  this  post  will 
show  you   whether  we  are   telling  the  truth   or  not. 

'  From  seeing  a  royal  lady  marry  below  her  rank  as  they  had  done. 

^  The  Duke  of  Lauzun. 

'  Gaston,  Duke  of  Orleans,  uncle  to  Louis  XIV. 

*  Philippe,  Duke  of  Orleans  (brother  of  Louis  XIV.),  whom  she  had  refused. 


MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE  I3T57 

TO  M.  DE  COULANGES 

Paris,   Friday,  December  19th,  1670. 

WHAT  happened  yesterday  evening  at  the  Tuileries  is  what 
one  might  call  a  fall  from  the  clouds  —  but  I  must  begin 
at  the  beginning.  You  heard  of  the  joy,  of  the  trans- 
ports, of  the  bliss,  of  the  princess  and  her  fortunate  lover.  It 
was  on  Monday  that  the  affair  was  announced  as  I  wrote  you. 
Tuesday  passed  in  talking  —  in  wondering — in  complimenting. 
On  Wednesday  Mademoiselle  made  a  donation  to  M.  de  Lauzun, 
with  the  object  of  endowing  him  with  the  titles,  names,  and 
necessary  decorations,  that  they  might  be  enumerated  in  the  mar- 
riage contract,  which  was  made  the  same  day.  She  gave  him, 
in  preparation  for  something  better,  four  duchies:  the  first  was 
the  county  of  Eu,  which  is  the  first  peerage  in  France;  the 
duchy  of  Montpensier,  whose  title  he  bore  through  that  day;  the 
duchy  of  Saint  Fargeau;  the  duchy  of  Chatellerault, —  the  whole 
valued  at  twenty-two  millions.  The  contract  was  finally  prepared, 
in  which  he  took  the  name  of  Montpensier.  On  Thursday  morn- 
ing—  which  was  yesterday — Mademoiselle  hoped  that  the  King 
would  sign  the  contract,  as  he  had  agreed  to  do;  but  about  seven 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  the  Queen,  Monsieur,  and  some  busy- 
bodies  convinced  the  King  that  this  affair  would  injure  his  repu- 
tation. Accordingly,  having  summoned  Mademoiselle  and  M.  de 
Lauzun,  his  Majesty  announced  to  them,  before  M.  le  Prince, 
that  he  forbade  them  absolutely  to  think  of  the  marriage.  M.  de 
Lauzun  received  this  order  with  all  the  respect  and  submission, 
all  the  firmness  and  all  the  despair,  which  became  so  great  a  fall. 
But  Mademoiselle  —  characteristically — burst  into  tears,  shrieks, 
and  groans,  and  bitter  complaints.  She  kept  her  bed  the  whole 
day,  taking  nothing  but  bouillons. 

TO   HER    DAUGHTER,  MADAME   DE   GRIGNAN 

I 
LivRY,  Holy  Wednesday,   March  25th,  1671. 

I   HAVE  been  here  three  hours,  my  dear  child.      I  left  Paris  with 
the  Abb6,  Hdlene,  Hdbert,  and   Marphise,*  with   the  intention 
of    retiring    from    the    world    and    its    tumtilt    until    Thursday 
evening.     I   am   supposed  to  be  in  retreat.     I  am  making  a  kind 
*Her  pet  dog. 


13 1 58  MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE 

of  little  "  La  Trappe,^^  where  I  may  pray  to  God  and  indulge  in 
a  thousand  pious  reflections.  I  have  resolved  to  fast  here,  for 
various  reasons:  to  make  up  in  walking  for  all  the  time  that  I 
have  been  in  my  room;  and  chiefly,  to  be  bored  for  the  love  of 
God.  But  what  I  shall  do  far  better  than  all  these,  is  to  think 
of  you,  my  child.  I  have  not  ceased  to  do  so  since  I  arrived; 
and  not  being  able  to  restrain  all  my  feelings,  I  have  seated 
myself  to  write  to  you,  at  the  end  of  this  little  shady  walk  which 
you  love,  upon  a  mossy  bank  where  I  have  so  often  seen  you 
lying.  But,  mon  Dien !  where  have  I  not  seen  you  here !  and 
how  these  memories  grieve  my  heart!  There  is  no  place,  no 
spot, —  either  in  the  house  or  in  the  church,  in  the  country  or 
in  the  garden, —  where  I  have  not  seen  you.  Everything  brings 
some  memory  to  mind ;  and  whatever  it  may  be,  it  makes  my  heart 
ache.  I  see  you;  you  are  present  to  me.  I  think  of  everything 
and  think  again.  My  brain  and  my  heart  grow  confused.  But 
in  vain  I  turn  —  in  vain  I  seek:  that  dear  child  whom  I  passion- 
ately love  is  two  hundred  leagues  distant  from  me.  I  have  her 
no  more;  and  then  I  weep,  and  cannot  cease.  My  love,  that  is 
weakness;  but  as  for  me,  I  do  not  know  how  to  be  strong  against 
a  feeling  so  powerful  and  so  natural. 

I  cannot  tell  in  what  frame  of  mind  you  will  be  when 
reading  this  letter:  perhaps  chance  may  bring  it  to  you  in- 
opportunely, and  it  may  not  be  read  in  the  spirit  in  which  it 
is  written, —  but  for  that  there  is  no  remedy.  To  write  it,  at 
least,  consoles  me  now;  that  is  all  I  ask  of  it  at  present,  for 
the  state  into  which  this  place  has  thrown  me  is  inconceivable. 
Do  not  speak  of  my  weaknesses;  but  you  must  love  and  respect 
my  tears,  since  they  proceed  from  a  heart  which  is  wholly  yours. 

II 

Friday  Evening,   April  24th,  167 1. 

I  MEANT  to  tell  you  that  the  King  arrived  at  Chantilly  last 
evening.  He  hunted  the  stag  by  moonlight;  the  lanterns 
were  very  brilliant;  and  altogether  the  evening,  the  supper, 
the  play, — all  went  off  marvelously  well.  The  weather  to-day 
makes  us  anticipate  a  worthy  close  to  such  a  beginning.  But  I 
-lave  just  heard  something  as  I  came  here  from  which  I  cannot 
recover,  and  which  makes  me  forget  what  I  was  about  to  write 
you.  Vatel  —  the  great  Vatel  —  maitre  d' hotel  of  M.  Fouquet,  and 
who  has  recently  been  in  the  service  of  M.  le  Prince — the  man 


MADAME    DE   SEVIGNE  13159 

above  all  others  in  ability,  whose  good  head  was  capable  of 
carrying  the  affairs  of  a  State  —  this  man,  such  as  I  knew  him, 
finding  that  at  eight  o'clock  the  fish  had  not  arrived,  and  unable 
to  sustain  the  humiliation  which  he  foresaw,  stabbed  himself. 
You  can  imagine  the  horrible  disorder  into  which  such  a  dread- 
ful accident  threw  the  fete. 


Paris,   Sunday,  April  26th,  167 1. 

THIS   letter   will   not   go   before   Wednesday;   but   this   is   not   a 
letter, —  only  an   account   of  what   Moreuil  has  just  told  me 
for  your  benefit,   concerning  Vatel.     I  wrote  you  on  Friday 
that  he  had  stabbed  himself;    here  is  the  story  in  detail. 

The  King  arrived  on  Thursday  evening;  the  promenade,  the 
collation, —  served  on  a  lawn  carpeted  with  jonquils, —  all  was 
perfect.  At  supper  there  were  a  few  tables  where  the  roast  was 
wanting,  on  account  of  some  guests  whose  arrival  had  not  been 
expected.  This  mortified  Vatel,  who  said  several  times,  "  My 
honor  is  gone :  I  can  never  survive  this  shame.  '^  He  also  said  to 
Gourville,  **  My  head  swims.  I  have  not  slept  for  twelve  nights. 
Help  me  give  the  orders.'*  Gourville  encouraged  him  as  well  as 
he  could.  The  roast  had  not  been  wanting  at  the  King's  table; 
but  he  could  not  forget  that  there  was  none  at  the  twenty-fifth. 
Gourville  told  M.  le  Prince,  who  went  immediately  to  Vatel'g 
room,  and  said  to  him,  "Vatel,  everything  is  going  on  well. 
Nothing  could  be  finer  than  the  King's  supper."  He  replied, 
"  My  lord,  your  goodness  overwhelms  me.  I  know  that  the  roast 
was  missing  at  two  tables.  **  "  Not  at  all,  **  said  M.  le  Prince. 
"Don't  disturb  yourself:  everything  is  going  on  well."  Midnight 
came;  the  fireworks,  which  cost  sixteen  thousand  francs,  did  not 
succeed,  on  account  of  the  fog.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
Vatel,  going  through  the  chateau,  found  every  one  asleep.  He 
met  a  young  steward,  who  had  brought  only  two  hampers  of 
fish:  he  asked,  "Is  that  all?" — "Yes,  isir."  The  lad  did  not  know 
that  Vatel  had  sent  to  all  the  seaports.  Vatel  waited  some  time; 
the  other  purveyors  did  not  arrive:  his  brain  reeled;  he  believed 
no  more  fish  could  be  had:  and  finding  Gourville,  he  said,  "My 
dear  sir,  I  shall  never  survive  this  disgrace."  Gourville  ridiculed 
him.  Vatel  went  up  to  his  chamber,  placed  his  sword  against 
the  door,  and  stabbed  himself  to  the  heart;  but  only  on  the 
third  attempt — for  he   gave  himself  two   thrusts  which  were  not 


13160 


MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE 


mortal  —  did  he  fall  dead.  Meanwhile  the  .fish  arrived  from 
every  quarter;  and  seeking  for  Vatel  to  give  it  out,  they  went 
to  his  room,  knocked,  burst  in  the  door,  and  found  him  drowned 
in  his  blood.  They  ran  to  M,  le  Prince,  who  was  in  despair. 
M.  le  Due  wept;  his  father  told  the  King  in  sorrow.  It  was  said 
that  this  occurred  because  Vatel  had  a  high  sense  of  honor.  He 
was  praised;  and  his  courage  both  praised  and  blamed.  The 
King  said  that  he  had  deferred  going  to  Chantilly  for  five  years 
because  he  knew  how  much  trouble  his  visit  would  cause.  He 
told  M.  le  Prince  that  he  ought  only  to  have  two  tables,  and  not 
provide  for  everybody.  He  vowed  that  he  would  no  longer 
permit  M.  le  Prince  to  do  so;  but  it  was  too  late  for  poor  Vatel. 
Gourville,  however,  tried  to  make  up  for  his  loss,  in  which 
he  succeeded.  They  all  dined  very  well:  had  a  collation  and  a 
supper — walked  —  played  —  hunted.  Everything  was  perfumed 
with  jonquils;  all  was  enchantment. 


Ill 


Les  Rochers,   September  30th,  167 1. 

As  for  La  Mousse,  he  catechizes  on  holidays  and  Sundays;  he 
is  determined  to  go  to  Paradise.  I  tell  him  it  is  only  for 
curiosity,  that  he  may  discover  once  for  all  whether  the  sun 
is  a  mass  of  dust  violently  agitated,  or  a  globe  of  fire.  The  other 
day  he  was  catechizing  some  little  children;  and  after  a  few  ques- 
tions they  got  everything  so  mixed  up  that  when  he  asked  who 
the  Virgin  was,  they  answered  one  after  another,  ^*  The  creator 
of  heaven  and  earth. ^^  He  was  not  convinced  by  the  children; 
but  finding  that  the  men,  the  women,  and  even  the  old  people, 
said  the  same  thing,  he  was  persuaded  of  the  fact,  and  gave  in 
to  the  general  opinion.  At  last  he  knew  no  longer  what  he  was 
about;  and  if  I  had  not  appeared  on  the  scene,  he  would  never 
have  recovered  himself.  This  novel  opinion  would  have  created 
quite  another  disturbance  from  the  motion  of  the  little  atoms. 


MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE  13161 

IV 

Paris,  Wednesday,   March  i6th,    1672. 

You  ask  me,  my  dear  child,  if  I  am  as  much  in  love  with  life 
as  ever.  I  confess  it  has  many  troubles;  but  I  am  still 
more  disinclined  to  die.  Indeed,  I  am  so  unhappy  because 
everything  must  end  in  death,  that  I  should  ask  nothing  better 
than  to  turn  back  if  it  were  possible.  I  am  involved  in  a  per- 
plexing engagement:  entering  upon  life  without  my  own  con- 
sent, I  must  at  last  leave  it.  The  thought  overwhelms  me.  How 
shall  I  go  ?  Where  ?  By  what  gate  ?  When  will  it  be  ?  In 
what  manner  ?  Shall  I  suffer  a  thousand  thousand  griefs,  and 
die  despairing  ?  Shall  I  be  delirious  ?  Shall  I  perish  by  an  acci- 
dent ?  How  shall  I  stand  before  God  ?  What  shall  I  have  to 
offer  him?  Will  fear,  will  necessity,  turn  my  heart  to  him? 
Shall  I  feel  no  emotion  save  fear  ?  What  can  I  hope  ?  Am  I 
worthy  of  Paradise  ?  Am  I  fit  for  hell  ?  What  an  alternative ! 
What  a  perplexity !  Nothing  is  so  foolish  as  to  be  uncertain 
about  one's  salvation:  but  then,  nothing  is  so  natural;  and  the 
careless  life  which  I  lead  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to 
comprehend. 

I  am  overpowered  by  these  thoughts;  and  death  appears  to 
me  so  horrible,  that  I  hate  life  rather  because  it  leads  thither, 
than  for  the  thorns  with  which  it  is  sown.  You  will  say  that 
then  I  want  to  live  forever.  Not  at  all :  but  if  I  had  been  con- 
sulted, I  should  have  preferred  to  die  in  my  nurse's  arms, —  it 
would  have  saved  me  from  so  many  annoyances,  and  secured 
salvation  very  easily  and  very  certainly.  But  let  us  talk  of  some- 
thing else. 


Lambesc,  Tuesday,   December  20th,   1672. 

WHEN  one  reckons  without  Providence,  one  must  reckon  twice. 
I  was  all  dressed  at  eight  o'clock;  had  taken  my  coffee, 
heard  mass,  made  all  my  adieus;  the  packs  were  loaded, 
the  bells  of  the  mules  reminded  me  that  it  was  time  to  mount 
my  litter;  my  room  was  fiill  of  people,  all  of  whom  begged  me 
not  to  start  because  it  had  rained  so  much  during  the  last  few 
days, —  since  yesterday  continually, —  and  at  this  very  moment 
more  violently  than   ever.      I  resisted   sturdily  all  this  persuasion, 


13x62 


MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE 


out  of  regard  to  the  resolution  I  had  taken,  and  because  of  all 
that  I  wrote  to  you  yesterday  by  the  post,  assuring  you  that  I 
should  arrive  on  Thursday.  Suddenly  M.  de  Grignan  appeared 
in  his  dressing-gown  and  spoke  seriously  to  me  of  the  fool- 
hardiness  of  my  enterprise:  saying  that  my  muleteer  could  never 
follow  my  litter,  that  my  mules  would  fall  into  the  ditches,  that 
my  people  would  be  too  drenched  to  help  me ;  —  so  that  in  a 
moment  I  changed  my  mind,  and  yielded  completely  to  these 
wise  remonstrances.  Therefore,  my  child,  boxes  are  being  un- 
loaded, mules  unharnessed,  lackeys  and  maids  are  drying  their 
clothes,  after  having  merely  crossed  the  court-yard,  and  I  am 
sending  you  a  messenger, —  knowing  your  goodness  and  your 
anxiety,  and  wishing  also  to  quiet  my  own  uneasiness, —  because 
I  am  alarmed  about  your  health;  and  this  man  will  either  return 
and  bring  me  news  of  you,  or  will  meet  me  on  the  road.  In 
a  word,  my  dear  child,  he  will  arrive  at  Grignan  on  Thursday 
instead  of  me;  and  I  shall  start  whenever  it  pleases  the  heav- 
ens and  M.  de  Grignan.  The  latter  governs  me  with  good  inten- 
tions, and  understands  all  the  reasons  which  make  me  desire 
so  passionately  to  be  at  Grignan.  If  M.  de  La  Garde  could  be 
ignorant  of  all  this,  I  should  be  glad;  for  he  will  exult  in  the 
pleasure  of  having  foretold  the  very  embarrassment  in  which  I 
am  placed.  But  let  him  beware  of  the  vainglory  which  may 
accompany  the  gift  of  prophecy  on  which  he  piques  himself. 
Finally,  my  child,  here  I  am!  don't  expect  me  at  all.  I  shall 
surprise  you,  and  take  no  risks,  for  fear  of  troubling  you  and 
also  myself.  Adieu,  my  dearest  and  loveliest.  I  assure  you 
that  I  am  greatly  afflicted  to  be  kept  a  prisoner  at  Lambesc;  but 
how  could  one  foresee  such  rains  as  have  not  been  known  in 
this  country  for  a  hundred  years  ? 


VI 

MoNTELiMART,  Thursday,  October  5th,  1673. 

THIS  is  a  terrible  day,   my  dear  child.      I   confess  to  you   I   can 
bear  no  more.     I  have  left  you  in  a   state   which   increases 
my   grief.     I    think    of   all    the    steps    you    are    taking    away 
frorh   me,  and  those   I  take   away   from  you,  and    how  impossible 
that  walking  in  this  manner  we  shall  ever  meet  again.     My  heart 
is  at  rest  when  it  is  near  you;   that  is  its  natural  state,  and  the 


MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE  13163 

only  one  which  can  give  it  peace.  What  happened  this  morning 
gave  me  keen  sorrow,  and  a  pang  of  which  your  philosophy  can 
divine  the  reasons.  I  have  felt  and  shall  long  feel  them.  My 
heart  and  my  imagination  are  filled  with  you.  I  cannot  think 
of  you  without  weeping,  and  of  you  I  am  always  thinking:  so 
that  my  present  state  i^  unendurable;  as  it  is  so  extreme,  I  hope 
its  violence  may  not  last.  I  am  seeking  for  you  everywhere, 
and  I  find  that  all  thirgs  are  wanting  since  I  have  not  you.  My 
eyes,  which  for  fourteen  months  have  gazed  upon  you,  find  you 
no  more.  The  happy  time  that  is  past  makes  the  present  un- 
happy—  at  least  until  1  am  a  little  accustomed  to  it;  but  I  shall 
never  be  so  wonted  to  it  as  not  to  wish  ardently  to  see  and 
embrace  you  again.  I  cannot  expect  more  of  the  future  than  of 
the  past.  I  know  what  your  absence  has  made  me  suffer.  I 
am  henceforth  still  more  to  be  pitied,  because  I  have  made  the 
habit  of  seeing  you  necessary  to  me.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  did 
not  embrace  you  enough  when  we  parted:  why  should  I  have 
refrained  ?  I  have  never  told  you  often  enough  what  happiness 
your  tenderness  gives  me.  I  have  never  enough  commended  you 
to  M.  de  Grignan,  nor  thanked  him  enough  for  all  his  courtesy 
and  friendship  towards  me.  In  a  word,  I  only  live  for  you,  my 
child.  God  give  me  the  grace  some  day  to  love  him  as  I  love 
you.  Adieu,  my  beloved  child:  love  me  always.  Alas!  we  must 
be  content  now  with  letters. 


VII 

Paris,   Friday,   December  8th,    1673. 

1MUST  begin,  my  de;"i,r  child,  with  the  death  of  the  Comte  de 
Guiche,  which  is  the  interest  of  the  day.  The  poor  boy  died 
of  disease  and  weakness,  in  M.  de  Turenne's  army;  the  news 
was  received  on  Tuesday  morning.  Father  Bourdaloue  announced 
it  to  the  Mardchal  de  Gramont,  who  suspected  it,  knowing  the 
desperate  condition  of  his  son.  He  sent  every  one  out  of  his 
room  —  he  was  in  a  sn'iall  apartment  which  he  has  in  the  Capu- 
chin monastery.  When  he  was  alone  with  the  Father,  he  threw 
himself  on  his  neck,  saying  that  he  well  knew  what  he  had 
to  tell  him;  that  it  was  his  death-blow;  that  he  would  receive 
it  as  from  the  hand  of  God;  that  he  had  lost  the  only,  sole,  and 
true   object   of  his   tenderness   and  of   his   natural   affection;   that 


13 1 64  MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE 

he  had  never  experienced  real  happiness  or  violent  grief  save 
through  this  son,  who  had  admirable  qualities.  •  He  threw  him- 
self upon  the  bed,  unable  to  say  more,  but  not  weeping;  for  in 
that  condition  one  cannot  weep.  The  Father  wept,  and  had  as 
yet  said  nothing;  but  at  last  he  spoke  of  God,  as  you  know  he 
can  speak.  They  were  six  hours  together;  and  then  the  Father, 
to  have  him  complete  his  sacrifice,  led  him  to  the  church  of 
these  good  Capuchins,  where  vigils  were  being  said  for  this  dear 
son.  The  Marechal  entered  tottering,  trembling,  rather  carried 
and  pushed  than  on  his  own  limbs,  his  face  no  longer  recogniza- 
ble. M.  le  Due  saw  him  in  this  state,  and  wept  in  telling  us 
about  it  at  Madame  de  La  Fayette's  house. 

The  poor  Marechal  at  last  returned  to  his  little  room;  he  is 
like  a  condemned  man ;  the  King  has  written  to  him ;  no  one 
sees  him.  Madame  de  Monaco  is  entirely  inconsolable;  as  is  also 
Madame  de  Louvigny,  but  it  is  because  she  is  not  at  all  afflicted. 
Do  you  not  admire  the  happiness  of  the  latter  ?  Madame  La 
Chanceliere  is  transported  with  joy.  The  Comtesse  de  Guiche 
behaves  very  well.  She  weeps  when  told  of  the  kind  words  and 
the  excuses  uttered  by  her  husband  when  dying.  She  says: 
^'  He  was  lovable ;  I  should  have  loved  him  passionately,  if  he 
could  have  loved  me  a  little.  I  have  endured  his  contempt  with 
regret;  his  death  touches  my  heart  and  awakens  my  pity.  I 
was  always  hoping  that  his  feelings  towards  me  would  change.'^ 
This  is  all  true,  and  not  a  farce.  Madame  de  Verneuil  is  genu- 
inely touched  by  it.  .  .  .  The  good  D'Hacqueville  has  gone 
to  Fraze,  thirty  leagues  distant,  to  announce  the  tidings  to  the 
Marechale  de  Gramont,  and  to  deliver  to  her  a  letter  from  the 
poor  boy,  in  which  he  tries  to  make  an  honorable  apology  for 
his  past  life, —  repenting  of  it  and  asking  pardon  publicly.  He 
begged  Vardes  to  forgive  him;  and  told  him  many  things  which 
may  be  useful  to  him.  Finally,  he  ended  the  play  very  well,  and 
has  left  a  rich  and  happy  widow. 

Monday,  December  25TH,  1673. 

VERY  well !  very  well !    Lamentations  over  the  Comte  de  Guiche ! 
Alas!    my    poor    child,    here    we    think    no   longer    of   him; 
not  even  the   Marechal,  who  has  returned  to  his  occtipation 
as  courtier.     As  for  your  princesse  [de  Monaco],  as  you  cleverly 
remark,    **After    all    that    she    has    forgotten,    there    need    be    no 
anxiety  as  to  the  effects  of  her  emotion."     Madame  de  Louvigny 


MADAME   DE   SEVIGNE  13165 

and  her  husband  are  beside  themselves  with  joy.  The  Comtesse 
de  Guiche  is  not  disposed  to  remarry,  but  a  tabouret  may  tempt 
her.     There  is  nobody  but  the  Mar^chale  who  is  dying  of  grief. 


VIII 

Paris,   Friday,  January  5th,   1674. 

MDE  Grignan  is  right  in  saying  that  Madame  de  Thiange 
no  longer  wears  rouge  or  low  dresses.  You  would  hardly 
recognize  her  in  this  disguise,  but  nothing  is  more  cer- 
tain. She  is  often  with  Madame  de  Longueville,  and  quite  on 
the  higher  plane  of  devotion.  She  is  always  very  good  company, 
and  not  at  all  a  recluse.  The  other  day  I  was  near  her  at  din- 
ner: a  servant  handed  her  a  large  glass  of  wine;  she  said  to  me, 
"Madame,  this  man  does  not  know  that  I  am  religious,*^  —  which 
made  us  all  laugh.  She  speaks  very  naturally  of  her  good  inten- 
tions, and  of  her  change  of  mind;  takes  care  of  what  she  says  of 
her  neighbor,  and  when  some  unkind  word  escapes  her,  she  stops 
short,  and  cries  out  against  her  evil  habit.  As  for  me,  I  find  her 
more  amiable  than  ever.  People  are  willing  to  wager  that  the 
Princesse  d'Harcourt  will  not  be  ddvote  a  year  from  now, — hav- 
ing been  made  lady  of  the  palace, —  and  that  she  will  use  rouge 
again;  for  rouge  is  the  law  and  the  prophets, —  Christianity  itself 
turns  upon  rouge.  As  for  the  Duchesse  d'Aumont,  her  fad  is  to 
bury  the  dead:  it  is  said  that  on  the  frontier,  the  Duchesse  de 
Charost  killed  people  for  her  with  her  badly  compounded  rem- 
edies, and  that  the  other  promptly  buried  them.  The  Marquise 
d'Auxelles  is  very  amusing  in  relating  all  that,  but  La  Marans 
is  better  still.  I  met  Madame  de  Schomberg,  who  told  me  very 
seriously  that  she  was  a  devote  of  the  first  rank,  both  as  regards 
retreats  and  penitence :  going  no  longer  into  society,  and  even 
declining  religious  amusements.  This  is  what  is  called  "  worship- 
ing God  in  spirit  and  in  truth,'*  with  the  simplicity  of  the  Early 
Church. 

The  ladies  of  the  palace  are  under  strict  discipline;  the  King 
has  had  an  explanation  with  them,  and  desires  that  the  Queen 
should  always  have  them  in  attendance.  Madame  de  Richelieu, 
although  she  no  longer  waits  at  table,  is  always  present  at  the 
Queen's  dinner,  with  four  ladies  who  serve  in  turn.  The  Com- 
tesse d'Ayen,  the  sixth,  is  in  dread  of  this  office,  and  of  -uot  going 


I3I66 


MADAME  DE   SEVIGNfi 


every  day  to  vespers,  to  the  sermon,  or  to  salut.  Indeed,  nothing 
in  this  world  is  so  saintly.  As  to  the  Marquise  de  Castelnau, 
she  is  fair,  fresh,  and  consoled.  L Eclair,  people  say,  has  only 
changed  apartments,  at  which  the  first  floor  is  ill  pleased.  Ma- 
dame de  Louvigny  does  not  seem  sufficiently  pleased  with  her 
good  fortune.  She  cannot  be  pardoned  for  not  loving  her  husband 
as  much  as  she  did  at  first, —  which  is  certainly  the  first  occasion 
on  which  the  public  has  been  scandalized  at  such  a  fault.  Madame 
de  Brissac  is  lovely,  and  dwells  in  the  shadow  of  the  late  Prin- 
cesse  de  Conti.  Her  affairs  with  her  father  are  in  arbitration; 
and  poor  M.  d'Arnusson  says  he  has  never  seen  a  woman  so 
honest  and  so  frank.  Madame  de  Cresqueu  is  very  much  as  you 
have  seen  her.  She  has  had  made  a  skirt  of  black  velvet,  with 
heavy  embroidery  of  gold  and  silver,  and  a  mantle  of  flame- 
colored  tissue,  with  gold  and  silver.  This  costume  cost  enor- 
mous sums:  but  although  she  was  really  resplendent,  people 
thought  her  dressed  like  an  actress;  and  she  was  so  unmercifully 
laughed  at  that  she  did  not  dare  to  wear  it  again. 

La  Manierosa  is  somewhat  chagrined  at  not  being  lady  of  the 
palace.  Madame  de  Dura,  who  does  not  wish  the  honor,  ridicules 
her.  La  Troche  is,  as  you  have  known  her,  passionately  devoted 
to  your  interests.  The  ladies  of  the  palace  have  been  slandered 
in  a  way  that  made  me  laugh.  I  said,  "Let  us  revenge  our- 
selves by  abusing  them.^*  Guilleragues  said  yesterday  that  Pelis- 
son  abused  the  privilege  which  men  possess  of  being  ugly. 


SHAKESPEARE 


13167 


SHAKESPEARE 

BY   EDWARD   DOWDEN 

jF  AN  Academy  of  Immortals  chosen  from  all  ages  could  be 
formed,  there  is  no  doubt  that  a  plebiscite  of  the  English- 
speaking  peoples  would  send  Shakespeare  as  their  chief  rep- 
resentative to  that  august  assembly.  He  alone  could  speak  on  their 
behalf  of  life  and  its  joys  in  the  presence  of  Homer,  of  death  and  its 
mysteries  in  Dante's  presence;  he  alone  could  respond  to  the  wis- 
dom of  Goethe  with  a  broader  and  a  sunnier  wisdom;  he  alone  could 
match  the  laughter  of  Moliere  with  a  laughter  as  human  and  more 
divine.  There  is  a  grace  in  literature  which  corresponds  to  the 
theological  grace  of  charity:  he  who  loses  his  life  in  his  vision  of 
the  world  shall  save  it;  he  who  does  not  clamor,  or  assert  himself, 
or  thrust  forward  his  individuality,  yet  is  forever  operating  over  the 
entire  field  of  nature  like  light,  —  illuminating,  interpreting,  kindling, 
fructifying,  —  he  it  is  who  while  remaining  unknown  is  of  all  men 
best  known.  We  are  familiar  with  the  thews  and  bulk  of  Shake- 
speare's great  contemporary  Ben  Jonson ;  we  stand  in  his  shadow 
and  are  oppressed  by  his  magnitude;  we  know  him  as  a  huge  and 
impressive,  if  somewhat  ungainly,  object.  Shakespeare  disappears 
from  view,  because  he  plays  around  us  like  the  intangible  air  and 
sunshine,  and  has  entered  into  us  and  become  a  portion  of  our  own 
life. 

He  came  at  a  fortunate  time,  when  it  was  possible  to  view  the 
world  in  a  liberal  spirit,  free  from  the  harshness  of  the  ascetic  and 
the  narrowness  of  the  sectary.  A  mediaeval  Shakespeare  might  have 
found  that  seriousness  implied  severity,  or  that  mirth  meant  revolt 
and  mockery;  he  might  have  been  forced  to  regard  the  mundane 
and  the  supermundane  as  hostile  powers;  he  might  have  staggered 
under  a  burden  of  theology,  or  have  thrown  it  off  and  become  mili- 
tant and  aggressive  in  his  vindication  of  the  natural  man.  Had  he 
lived  when  Milton  lived,  he  could  hardly  have  stood  neutral  between 
two  parties  which  divided  the  people  of  England:  yet  transformed  to 
a  political  combatant,  Shakespeare  must  have  given  to  party  some- 
thing that  was  meant  for  mankind;  the  deep  human  problems  which 
interest  him  might  have  been  replaced  or  obscured  by  temporary 
questions  urgent  for  the  moment,  by  theories  of  government,  of  pop- 
ular rights,  of  ecclesiastical  organization,  of  ceremonj-  and  ordinance, 
of  Divine  decrees,  free-will,  foreknowledge  absolute,  as  formulated  in 
dogma.      Born    in    the    eighteenth    century,  Shakespeare   would   have 


13168 


SHAKESPEARE 


breathed  with  difficulty:  for  the  higher  enthusiasm  of  poetry,  the 
age  of  Addison  was  like  an  exhausted  receiver;  the  nobler  wisdom 
of  Elizabethan  days  had  cooled  and  contracted  into  good  sense.  Even 
as  a  contemporary  of  Byron  and  of  Wordsworth  he  would  have  been 
at  a  disadvantage:  the  poetry  of  social  movement  was  turbid  with 
passion  or  doctrinaire  in  its  theories  of  revolution ;  serenity  was 
attainable,  as  Wordsworth  proved,  but  it  was  to  be  attained  rather 
through  the  spirit  of  contemplation  than  by  dealing  with  the  insur- 
gent forces  of  modern  life. 

In  the  age  of  Bacon  and  Spenser  and  Shakespeare,  three  great 
streams,  afterwards  to  be  parted,  had  united  to  form  a  broad  and 
exultant  flood.  The  new  ideals  of  the  Renaissance,  the  new  sense 
of  the  worth  of  life  on  earth,  the  new  delight  in  beauty,  had  been 
deepened  and  enriched  by  the  seriousness  of  the  Reformation ;  the 
sense  of  national  power,  the  pride  of  country, — suddenly  enhanced 
by  the  overthrow  of  the  naval  might  of  Papal  Spain, — had  coalesced 
with  these.  For  the  imagination,  the  glories  of  Italy  and  of  ancient 
Greece  and  Rome ;  for  the  conscience,  the  words  of  Hebrew  prophets 
and  singers  and  Christian  teachers;  for  the  heart, 

«This  royal  throne  of  kings,  this  sceptred  isle. 
This  other  Eden,  demi-Paradise,     .     .     . 
This  blessed  plot,  this  earth,  this  realm,  this  England. » 

During  one  brief  period,  Englishmen  discovered  that  gravity  might 
be  gay  and  gayety  might  be  serious,  while  both  gayety  and  grav- 
ity were  supported  by  an  energy  of  will  which  enabled  them  to  do 
great  things;  they  could  be  stern  withoiit  moroseness,  and  could 
laugh  aloud  because  such  laughter  was  a  part  of  strength,  and  of 
their  strenuous  acceptance  of  the  world  as  good. 

It  was  a  fortunate  moment  for  a  dramatic  artist.  The  epic 
breadth  and  the  moral  purport  of  the  mediaeval  religious  drama  had 
not  been  lost;  but  they  had  submitted  to  the  new  and  happier  forms 
of  Renaissance  literature.  Italian  and  classical  models  had  served 
to  make  tragedy  and  comedy  shapely,  organic,  vertebrate.  But  the 
pedantry  of  scholars  had  not  suppressed  the  instincts  of  popular 
pleasure.  The  spectators  of  the  theatre  included  both  a  cultured 
minority,  and  the  ruder  mass  that  desired  strong  appeals  to  pity  and 
terror,  and  a  frank  invitation  to  mirth.  The  court  favored  but  did 
not  dominate  the  theatre ;  the  stage  remained  essentially  popular,  but 
it  showed  how  a  common  pleasure  could  be  ennobled  and  refined. 
Shakespeare's  predecessors  had  prepared  the  way  for  him  in  tragedy, 
comedy,  and  hronicle  play.  He  received  from  Marlowe  that  majestic 
instrument  ot  poetic  expression,  blank  verse;  it  was  his  triumph 
to  discover  in  time  how  to  extend  the  keyboard,  and  to  touch  its 
various  stops.  The  years  from  1590  to  1610  were  the  high  midsum- 
mer of  the  English  drama,  when  the  fruitage  was  maturing  from  its 


SHAKESPEARE 


13169 


early  crudities,  and  was  still  untouched  by  that  overripeness  which 
streaked  and  spotted  the  later  Jacobean  and  Caroline  drama,  and 
gave  it  the  sick-sweet  odor  of  decay.  Nor  as  yet,  in  the  struggle 
for  existence  between  literary  species,  had  the  novel  entered  into  com- 
petition with  the  drama.  When  it  did  so,  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
the  high  tragedy  of  the  age  was  Richardson's  *  Pamela,  >  the  most 
genial  comedy  was  Fielding's  ^Tom  Jones.* 

These  advantages  Shakespeare  gained  from  his  environment  and 
from  the  moment  when  he  appeared ;  all  else  that  contributed  to  his 
work  may  be  assigned  to  his  own  genius.  If  he  became  the  most 
learned  man  of  his  generation,  the  most  learned  man  of  all  genera- 
tions, in  one  department, —  the  lore  of  the  passions, — it  was  not 
because  he  was  born  in  this  age  or  in  that.  It  was  because  he 
possessed  the  genius  of  discovery;  he  directed  his  prow  across  the 
voyageable  ocean  of  the  human  heart,  and  from  a  floating  weed  he 
could  infer  America.  Each  man  contains  all  humanity  in  his  own 
breast;  the  microcosm  exhibits  the  macrocosm  in  little:  but  most 
men  cherish  what  is  peculiar  to  themselves,  what  is  individual;  and 
if  they  express  themselves  in  song  they  are  apt  to  tell  of  their 
private  joys  and  griefs:  we  capture  from  them  what  is  theirs,  and 
appropriate  it  to  our  own  uses.  Shakespeare  used  his  private  expe- 
rience as  a  chink  through  which  he  saw  the  world.  Did  he  feel  a 
momentary  pang  of  jealous  affection  ?  There  was  the  opening,  as  of 
an  eyelet-hole,  through  which  to  discover  the  vast  spasms  of  Othello's 
anguish.  An  experience  no  larger  than  a  mustard-seed,  a  sense  for 
all  the  obscure  affinities  of  things,  imagination  with  its  dilating  and 
its  divining  powers  —  these  were  the  sources  of  <  Hamlet  *  and  <  King 
Lear,*  rather  than  Saxo  Grammaticus  and  Holinshed.  As  Goethe 
in  a  leaf  could  recognize  the  type  of  plant  life  and  start  upon  his 
research  into  all  its  metamorphoses,  so  Shakespeare,  discovering  in 
what  seems  insignificant  the  type  of  a  passion,  could  trace  it  through 
its  varieties  by  the  divining  power  of  the  imagination.  He  observed 
himself  and  he  observed  the  world,  and  each  served  to  interpret 
the  other.  Not  that  which  bulked  largest  in  his  external  life  was 
necessarily  of  most  significance  for  his  art:  that  which  contained  a 
vital  germ,  to  be  fostered  by  his  imagination,  was  of  capital  import- 
ance. The  attempts  that  have  been  made  to  connect  the  creations 
of  such  a  man  of  genius  as  Shakespeare  with  incidents  in  his  career 
are  often  labor  spent  in  vain :  what  looks  considerable  from  an  ex- 
ternal point  of  view  may  have  been  an  aggregation  of  insignificant 
accidents  —  mere  dross*  of  life;  the  true  career  was  invisible:  some 
momentary  joy  or  pain,  of  which  we  shall  never  hear,  may  have 
involved,  as  in  a  seed,  the  blossoms  and  the  fruit  of  art.  We  all  con- 
tain within  us  the  ova  of  a  spiritual  population,  —  philosophers,  saints, 
heroes,  lovers,  humorists,  fantasticoes,  traii-'^rs.  cowards,  assassins, — else 


13170  SHAKESPEARE 

Shakespeare  were  unintelligible  to  us:  but  with  us  the  ge'rms  remain 
mere  protoplasm ;  with  the  man  of  genius  they  may  mature  to  a 
Hamlet,  a  Jaques,  a  Romeo,  a  Rosalind,  an  Imogen,  a  Cleopatra. 

Shakespeare's  outward  life  —  of  which  we  know  more  than  of  the 
life  of  any  other  Elizabethan  dramatist,  except  perhaps  Ben  Jonson  — 
shows  him  to  us  as  passionate  and  as  eminently  prudent.  His  mar- 
riage at  nineteen  with  a  woman  probably  uneducated,  several  years 
his  elder  and  of  inferior  social  position,  was  rash ;  he  fled  from  Strat- 
ford under  a  cloud,  to  avoid  the  consequences  of  a  youthful  escapade; 
if  we  accept  as  historical  the  story  outlined  in  the  *  Sonnets,^  we 
must  believe  that  he  was  capable  of  extravagant  devotion  to  a  dis- 
loyal friend,  and  was  for  a  time,  against  his  better  judgment,  the 
victim  of  feminine  wiles  and  of  his  own  intemperate  heart.  But 
Shakespeare  returned  to  Stratford,  wealthy,  honored,  and  beloved;  he 
did  not  wreck  his  life,  like  some  of  his  fellow-dramatists,  on  the  rocks 
or  quicksands  of  London ;  he  never  gave  offense  to  the  authorities  as 
Jonson  and  others  did,  by  indiscreet  references  to  public  persons  or 
events;  he  had  no  part  in  the  quarrels  of  authors;  he  neither  lavished 
praises  on  his  contemporaries  nor  stung  them  with  epigram  and  sat- 
ire; he  neither  bribed  nor  bullied;  his  amiability  and  high  breeding 
earned  him  the  epithet  <<  gentle  '^ ;  he  desired  the  ease  and  freedom 
which  worldly  substance  brings,  and  by  pursuing  his  own  way  with 
steadfastness  and  good  sense  he  attained  his  object.  Below  his  bust 
in  Stratford  Church  he  is  characterized  as  "  in  judgment  a  Nestor,  in 
genius  a  Socrates.  >^ 

He  lived  in  two  worlds, — the  extended  world  of  the  imagination, 
and  the  contracted  world  of  his  individual  material  life.  Which  was 
the  more  real?     Perhaps  the  positive,  material  life  was   the   dream: 

"■"  ,         «We  are,  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep.  >> 

But  he  would  dream  the  dream  well.  And  is  it  after  all  a  dream  ? 
Was  it  not  something  to  possess  his  soul  in  sanity,  to  dismiss  his 
airy  spirits,  to  break  his  magic  staff,  and  moving  amid  his  fellow- 
townsmen,  by  the  side  of  his  wife  and  daughters,  to  be  only  a  man  ? 
Only  a  man,  but  enjoying  within  himself  the  light  and  wisdom  won 
through  his  great  adventures  of  the  imagination.  His  book  of  magic, 
not  sunk  like  Prospero's  below  the  waves  deeper  than  ever  plummet 
sounded,  was  for  all  the  world.  His  personal  life  was  for  himself 
and  those  whom  he  loved.  And  even  for  his  art,  was  it  not  well 
that  he  should  be  attentive  to  the  lesser  things  of  worldly  wisdom  ? 
He  had  a  vast  burden  of  thoughts  and  visions  to  carry,  and  he  must 
needs  carry  it  steadily.  Were  it  better  if  he  had  confused  his  art 
with  the  feverish  and  mean  anxieties  that  attend  on  reckless  living  ? 


SHAKESPEARE  I3I71 

No:  let  the  two  lives  aid  each  other;  let  his  life  as  an  imaginative 
creator  effect  a  secondary  and  subordinate  purpose  in  rendering  his 
material  life  secure  and  substantial;  let  his  life  in  the  positive  world 
be  such  as  to  set  free,  rather  than  pull  down  or  embarrass,  his  life 
of  the  imagination.  He  might  play  the  two  games  together,  and 
play  both   with   success. 

What  moved  within  the  great  brain  and  the  great  heart  of  the 
prosperous  Stratford  gentleman, —  more  deep  and  wise  perhaps  than 
all  his  tragedies  and  comedies, —  we  shall  never  know:  it  was  a  mat- 
ter for  himself,  and  he  kept  his  secret  with  the  taciturnity  of  Nature. 
But  we  can  follow  his  adventures  in  the  realms  of  fancy.  In  these 
also  there  was  a  wise  economy  of  power:  he  did  not  dash  into  deep 
water,  as  has  often  been  the  way  with  youthful  poets,  before  he  had 
learnt  to  swim.  At  first  he  was  content  to  take,  lessons  in  his  craft: 
he  put  forth  no  ambitious  manifestoes;  he  did  not  pose  as  a  leader 
of  revolt,  or  belabor  the  public,  in  Ben  Jonson's  fashion,  with  a  doc- 
trine of  dramatic  reform ;  he  did  not  read  lessons  in  ethics  to  his 
age :  he  began  by  trying  to  please,  he  ended  by  trying  to  please  in  a 
nobler  manner;  he  taught  a  generation  which  had  laughed  at  *  The 
Comedy  of  Errors  *  how  to  smile  with  Prospero  in  ^  The  Tempest  ^ ; 
he  taught  a  generation  which  had  snuffed  up  the  reek  of  blood  from 
*  Titus  Andronicus*  how,  with  pity  lost  in  beautiful  pride  and  sense 
of  victory,  to  gaze  upon  the  dead  body  of  Cordelia.  The  great  work 
of  his  life  was  to  show  how  pleasure  can  be  converted  into  a  noble 
exercise  of  the  soul;  how  mirth  can  be  enriched  by  wisdom;  how  the 
primitive  brute  cry  of  pain  may  be  transformed  into  a  pure  voice 
bearing  a  part  in  the  majestic  symphony  of  the  world's  mourners; 
how  the  terror  that  arises  at  the  sight  of  violated  law  may  be  puri- 
fied from  gross  alarms,  and  appear  as  one  of  the  dread  pillars  of 
order  which  sustain  the  fabric  of  God's  world. 

The  English  people  need,  perhaps  in  a  special  degree,  wise  school- 
ing in  the  pleasures.  They  are  not  lacking  in  seriousness;  but  they 
are  prone  to  leave  their  pleasures  pawing  in  the  mire  like  Milton's 
half-created  beasts,  or  to  avert  their  eyes  sourly  and  walk  past  in 
self-complacent  respectability.  Even  Emerson,  who  uttered  admira- 
ble sentences  in  his  discourse  on  Shakespeare  as  the  representative 
poet,  laments  the  fact  that  he  employed  his  lofty  powers  so  meanly, 
"  leading  an  obscure  and  profane  life,  using  his  genius  for  the  public 
amusement;"  "he  converted  the  elements  that  waited  on  his  com- 
mand into  entertainments;  he  was  master  of  the  revels  to  mankind.'* 
But  what  if  Shakespeare  proved  that  the  revels  may  be  sacred  mys- 
teries ?  The  service  of  joy  in  such  art  as  his.  at  its  highest,  is 
something  more  than  amusement.  In  Sandro  Botticelli's  ^Nativity* 
the  angels  circle  above  the  manger  in  the  gracefulest  of  dances;  but 
are   they   only   amusing  themselves?    In   the   old   Italian   pictures   of 


j-j-2  SHAKESPEARE 

Paradise,  the  celestial  company  are  not  engaged  in  attending  to  a  ser- 
mon on  theology  or  a  lecture  on  ethics:  they  are  better  employed  in 
touching  their  harps  or  breathing  through  loud  uplifted  trumpets. 
Shakespeare's  highest  work  does  not  resemble  this  "  undisturbed  song 
of  pure  concent "  sung  before  <*  the  sapphire-colored  throne  >^ ;  but  it 
expresses  the  music  of  the  earth  —  with  adagio  and  allegro,  discords 
resolved  into  harmony,  imperious  suspensions,  rain  of  laughters,  rain 
of  tears  —  more  adequately  than  the  work  of  any  other  master.  Does 
it  lessen  his  service  to  the  world  that  such  work  is  also  a  beautiful 
play  ? 

Shakespeare's  attainment  was  not  snatched  in  haste :  it  was  won 
through  long  and  strenuous  endeavor.  In  his  early  comedies  he 
moves  brightly  over  the  surface  of  life.  ^Love's  Labour's  Lost'  is 
a  young  man's  goodrhumored  and  confident  satire  of  the  follies  and 
affectations  of  the  day.  How  are  we  to  learn  our  lesson,  he  asks,  in 
the  high-school  of  the  world  ?  Not  through  the  pedantries  of  erudi- 
tion, not  through  the  fantastical  subtleties  of  romance,  not  through 
a  high-flying  philosophy  which  disdains  the  plain  old  lore  of  mother 
Earth :  such  methods  will  only  make  ingenious  fools.  There  is  a 
better  way,  simple  in  appearance,  yet  really  needing  all  our  strength 
and  skill :  to  accept  the  teaching  of  life  itself  in  a  manly  spirit,  to  let 
both  head  and  heart  task  themselves  in  studying  the  book  of  nature; 
to  laugh  and  love;  but  also  to  temper  the  laughter  and  joy  of  youth 
by  acquaintance  with  the  sorrows  of  the  world.  Biron,  the  courageous 
jester,  with  seriousness  beneath  his  mirth,  is  dismissed  for  a  twelve- 
month to  try  how  mocks  and  flouts  will  sound  among  the  speechless 
sick  and  groaning  wretches  of  a  hospital.  He  will  laugh  at  the  end 
of  his  period  of  probation,  but  it  will  be  with  a  wiser,  a  braver,  and 
a  kindlier  laughter.  He  will  love  the  better  for  a  year's  instruction 
in  the  lessons  of  pain.  "  This  side  is  Hiems,  Winter,  this  Ver,  the 
Spring  >' :  the  song  of  the  cuckoo  and  the  song  of  the  owl  are  alike 
songs  of  the  earth;   let  us  cheerfully  attend  to  both. 

Such  was  Shakespeare's  starting-point.  He  was  a  scholar,  in  love 
with  the  book  of  life,  and  in  time  he  would  understand  its  meaning. 
But  as  he  turned  the  pages  he  found  obscure  and  awful  things,  and 
it  may  be  that  for  a  while  his  vision  grew  perplexed.  When  ^  Meas- 
ure for  Measure '  was  written,  it  seems  as  if  he  moved  in  some  valley 
of  the  shadow  of  sin  and  death,  amid  encompassing  gloom,  and  could 
sustain  his  courage  only  by  the  presence  of  strength,  severe  and  vir- 
ginal but  not  joyous,  as  seen  in  the  person  of  Isabella.  In  *■  Troilus 
and  Cressida, '  —  the  comedy  of  disillusion, —  he  gazes  on  life  with  a 
bitter  iron3^  finding  young  love  a  fraud,  and  pretentious  heroes 
only  vulgar  egoists  beneath  their  glittering  armor :  if  there  is  virtue 
anywhere,  it  must  be  sought  in  such  worldly  wisdom  as  that  of  Ulys- 
ses;   the   penetration   and   insight   of  a   Machiavelli   is  indeed  a  kind 


i 


SHAKESPEARE  13 1 73 

of  virtue  amid  sham  splendors,  mercenary  wiles,  and  the  deceits  of 
sensual  passion. 

But  Shakespeare  could  not  remain  content  with  the  poor  philoso- 
phy of  disenchantment.  Vain  opinions,  flattering  hopes,  false  valu- 
ations, self-deceptive  imaginations, —  he  had  come  to  know  them  all; 
but  he  could  not  accept  as  final  the  shrunken  wisdom  of  such  a  dis- 
covery. Nor  would  he  retreat  to  the  untenable  refuge  of  a  shallow 
optimism.  He  went  forward  courageously  to  a  deeper  inquisition  of 
evil.  He  ceased  for  a  time  from  comedy:  one  great  tragedy  —  'Julius 
Caesar, >  <  Hamlet, >  <  Othello,*  '  Lear,>  <  Macbeth, >  < Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra,* '  Coriolanus,*  '  Timon  of  Athens*  —  succeeded  another.  And 
searching  profoundly  into  the  mystery  of  evil,  he  rediscovered,  and  in 
a  deeper  way  than  ever  before,  the  mystery  of  good.  Cordelia  suffers 
a  shameful  death ;  but  she  has  given  her  life  as  a  free  gift,  to  win  a 
victory  of  love.  Othello,  in  the  blinding  simoon  of  passion,  has  struck 
her  whom  he  best  loved,  and  Desdemona  lies  on  the  bed  ''pale  as 
her  smock  ** :  but  her  spirit  has  conquered  the  malignant  spirit  of 
lago;  and  Othello  enters  into  a  great  calm  as  he  pronounces  the 
doom  of  a  justiciary  against  himself,  and  falls  where  his  lips  can  give 
his  wronged  wife  the  last  kiss  of  union. 

Into  such  a  calm,  but  serener  and  more  bright,  Shakespeare  him- 
self passed  after  he  had  completed  his  studies  of  terror  and  pity. 
The  serenity  of  the  latest  dramas,  beautiful  romances  rather  than 
comedies, —  the  plays  of  Prospero  and  Imogen  and  Hermione, —  has 
in  it  something  of  the  pellucid  atmosphere  of  early  autumn  days;  the 
air  is  bright  and  transparent,  but  below  its  calm  there  is  a  touch  of 
surrender  and  detachment:  the  harvest  is  well-nigh  gathered;  the 
songs  of  spring  and  the  vivifying  midsummer  ardors  are  withdrawn : 
yet  the  peace  that  is  present  is  a  vivid  peace ;  and  Shakespeare  in 
these  plays  sees  the  spectacle  of  life  —  its  joys  of  youth,  its  victories 
of  mature  wisdom  and  the  patience  of  hope  —  with  a  sympathy  deeper 
and  more  pure  than  that  of  his  earlier  exultant  years:  — 

"  Uranian  clearness,  come  ! 

Give  me  to  breathe  in  peace  and  in  surprise 

The  light-thrilled  ether  of  your  rarest  skies, 

Till  inmost  absolution  start 

The  welling  in  the  grateful  eyes. 

The  heaving  in  the  heart. » 

These  are  the  dramas  of  reconcilement;  like  the  masque  of  his  great 
enchanter,  "harmonious  charmingly.**  It  is  as  if  Shakespeare  had 
solved  the  riddle  at  last,  had  found  the  secret;  or  not  having  found 
it,  but  assured  that  its  meaning  is  good,  could  be  content  to  wait. 


I  3  174  SHAKESPEARE 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

(1564-1616) 

BY  ERNEST  HUNTER  WRIGHT 

IE  know  fairly  little  about  Shakespeare's  life  because  in  an  age 
when  biographies  were  considerably  more  rare  than  epics  no 
one  who  knew  the  poet  was  inspired  to  leave  us  an  account  of 
him.  Yet  we  know  relatively  much  —  more  than  is  known  of  almost 
any  of  his  fellow-dramatists  —  because  in  the  centuries  that  have 
ensued  a  thousand  hands  have  been  diligent  in  turning  over  documents 
that  might  disclose  a  fact  or  two  about  the  master.  Out  of  these 
researches  there  has  come  a  body  of  fact  mingled  with  tradition,  which, 
though  it  is  all  too  scanty  to  explain  the  poet's  spiritual  progress,  or  to 
answer  many  of  the  questions  that  arise  about  his  personality,  is  still 
sufficient  to  tell  a  fairly  continuous  story  of  his  passage  through  life. 

William  Shakespeare  was  baptized,  presumably  a  few  days  after  his 
birth,  at  Stratford  on  April  26th,  1564.  His  father,  John  Shakespeare, 
is  described  in  tradition  as  a  glover  and  also  as  a  butcher,  and  seems 
actually  to  have  been  a  general  dealer  in  farm  products.  In  1557  he 
had  made  a  seemingly  propitious  marriage  with  Alary  Arden,  who  had 
brought  him  considerable  property  and  who  bore  him  eight  children,  of 
whom  William  was  the  third  and  the  eldest  to  survive.  For  some  five 
years  before  marriage  and  for  fifteen  or  more  thereafter  the  record  of  the 
father  is  that  of  a  man  prosperous  in  business  and  in  civic  affairs.  In 
particular  he  advanced  through  various  municipal  offices  until  he  reached 
the  high  local  position  of  bailiff,  or  mayor,  of  Stratford  in  1568.  But  not 
long  after  that  date  his  fortunes  evidently  waned,  and  for  some  twenty 
years  after  1577  his  record  is  mainly  one  of  debts  and  mortgages  and 
lawsuits. 

Though  without  proof  of  the  fact,  we  have  good  reason  to  presume 
that  up  to  about  1577  William  Shakespeare  attended  the  grammar  school 
at  Stratford  and  received  the  discipline  in  Latin  authors  there  prescribed. 
But  it  is  believed  that  around  the  year  mentioned  he  was  taken  out  of 
school,  owing  to  his  father's  pecuniary  embarrassment,  and  put  to  work. 
There  is  a  story  that  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  butcher,  his  father  or 
another,  and  that  ((When  he  killed  a  calf  he  would  do  it  in  a  high  style 
and  make  a  speech.))  But  nothing  is  certain  about  him  before  he 
reached  the  age  of  eighteen.  Then,  in  1582,  occurs  the  record  of  a 
license  for  his  marriage  to  Anne  Hathaway.  The  evidences  indicate 
that  Anne  Hathaway,  who  was  apparently  the  daughter  of  a  farmer  in 


SHAKESPEARE  13175 

the  nearby  village  of  Shottery,  was  eight  years  older  than  Shakespeare, 
that  the  marriage  was  hurried  by  her  friends,  and  that  the  Shakespeare 
family  felt  no  pride  in  it.  The  haste  of  the  bride's  friends  seems  to  be 
explained  by  the  birth  of  Susanna,  her  first  child,  within  six  months  after 
the  wedding.  The  twins,  Hamnet  and  Judith,  were  born  two  years  later, 
in  1585;  and  this  is  the  last  positive  record  of  Shakespeare  before  we  hear 
of  him  in  London.  Whether  he  engaged  in  the  deer-stealing  escapade, 
famous  in  tradition  and  possibly  referred  to  by  Shakespeare  himself  in 
the  opening  lines  of  the  (Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,)  is  open  to  some 
question;  whether  this  had  anything  to  do  with  his  leaving  Stratford, 
to  still  more. 

Though  the  exact  date  is  uncertain,  it  is  thought  that  he  went  up 
to  London  about  1586.  There  is  one  story  that  he  found  work  holding 
horses  in  front  of  the  theatre,  and  another  that  he  secured  employment 
as  a  call-boy  within  the  building.  But  again,  nothing  is  sure  until 
1592;  then  the  records  inform  us  that  he  has  become  both  an  actor  and  a 
playwright,  and  is  rising  rapidly  enough  to  arouse  envy.  In  that  year 
the  dramatist  Robert  Greene,  ending  a  wretched  life  with  an  untimely 
death,  left  behind  him  a  pamphlet  called  ( Greene's  Groatsworth  of 
Wit,)  in  which  he  gives  warning  to  three  of  his  fellow-dramatists  to 
beware  of  plagiarists,  and  among  other  vituperative  gems  pours  out  the 
following: 

((Yes,  trust  them  not;  for  there  is  an  upstart  crow,  beautified  with  our  feathers, 
that  with  his  Tiger's  heart  wrapt  in  a  Player's  hide,  supposes  he  is  as  well  able  to 
bombast  out  a  blank  verse  as  the  best  of  you;  and  being  an  absolute  Johannes  Fac- 
totum, is  in  his  own  conceit  the  only  Shake-scene  in  a  country.)) 

Now  in  an  old  play  called  (The  True  Tragedy  of  Richarcf  Duke  of  York) 
there  occurs  the  line, 

((Oh  tiger's  heart  wrapt  in  a  woman's  hide!)) 

and  in  the  third  part  of  (  Henry  VI,)  a  play  based  on  the  (True  Tragedy) 
and  printed  in  the  Folio  as  Shakespeare's,  this  line  is  repeated.  It  is 
evidently  this  line  that  Greene  parodies  in  his  ((Tiger's  heart  wrapt  in  a 
player's  hide,))  and  the  parody  is  significant  coming  in  connection  with  a 
charge  of  plagiarism.  Furthermore,  ((Shake-scene))  is  pretty  obviously 
a  play  on  the  name  of  Shakespeare  and  his  new  occupation  on  the  stage. 
The  whole  passage  thus  shows  that  by  1592  Shakespeare  was  known  as 
an  actor,  and  that  whatever  else  he  had  written,  he  had  finished  his  share 
of  the  three  plays  of  (Henry  VI) ;  also  that  his  success  as  dramatist  was 
great  enough  to  provoke  the  jealousy  of  an  older  playwright. 

At  least  two  men  having  resented  Greene's  attack,  the  dramatist 
Chettle,  who  had  prepared  Greene's  pamphlet  for  the  press,  took  occasion 
to  make  apology  for  certain  passages  in  it  later  in  the  year  when  he 


13 176  SHAKESPEARE 

came  to  publish  his  own  (Kind-Harts  Dream.)  And  it  is  very  likely, 
though  not  certain,  that  the  following  part  of  the  apology  refers  to 
Shakespeare. 

((With  neither  of  them  that  take  offense  was  I  acquainted,  and  with  one  of  them 
I  care  not  if  I  never  be.  The  other,  whom  at  that  time  I  did  not  so  much  spare  as 
since  I  wish  I  had,  for  that  as  I  have  moderated  the  heat  of  living  writers,  and  might 
have  used  my  own  discretion, —  especially  in  such  a  case,  the  author  being  dead,  — 
that  I  did  not,  I  am  as  sorry,  as  if  the  original  fault  had  been  my  fault,  because  myself 
have  seen  his  demeanor  no  less  civil,  than  he  excellent  in  the  quality  he  professes: 
besides,  divers  of  worship  have  reported  his  uprightness  in  dealing,  which  argues 
his  honesty,  and  his  facetious  grace  in  writing,  that  approves  his  art.)) 

The  character  here  outlined  is  so  like  that  given  to  Shakespeare  by  other 
writers  later  as  to  strengthen  the  belief  that  he  is  here  referred  to. 

So  by  1592  Shakespeare  is  well  established  as  an  actor  and  a  drama- 
tist; and  from  now  on  for  about  twenty  years  he  continues  to  produce 
plays  at  the  rate  of  nearly  two  a  year.  The  succession  of  these  plays, 
in  the  approximate  order  of  their  composition,  we  may  postpone  for  a 
moment  in  order  to  leave  clear  the  record  of  the  author's  life.  In  1593 
he  made  a  bid  for  fame  and  for  a  patron  by  publishing  his  (Venus  and 
Adonis,)  addressed  in  eulogistic  terms  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  and 
in  the  following  year  he  published  (The  Rape  of  Lucrece,)  dedicated 
to  the  same  nobleman  in  terms  noticeably  more  familiar  and  therefore 
perhaps  indicating  that  Southampton  had  proved  friendly  and  munifi- 
cent. Without  going  so  far  as  to  believe  the  story  that  Southampton 
once  gave  him  a  thousand  pounds,  certainly  a  very  large  present  at  that 
time,  we  may  with  plausibility  suppose  that  Shakespeare  benefited 
considerably  from  the  Earl's  influence  and  purse.  And  the  two  poems 
brought  him  a  good  measure  of  literary  distinction.  Prominence  of 
another  kind  is  also  evinced  from  the  record  that  in  1594  Shakespeare 
was  summoned,  along  with  some  of  his  fellow-actors,  to  present  two 
comedies  before  the  Queen  at  Greenwich  in  the  Christmas  season. 

Then  the  records  take  us  back  to  Stratford.  During  all  this  time 
the  family  there  had  seemingly  continued  in  exiguous  circumstances, 
and  in  1596  Shakespeare's  only  son,  Hamnet,  died.  In  this  year, 
apparently,  Shakespeare  revisited  Stratford  and  began  to  retrieve  the 
family  fortunes.  For  one  thing,  it  was  in  this  year  that  his  father 
applied  for  a  coat  of  arms.  In  a  man  who  had  been  down  at  heels  for 
twenty  years  this  was  an  unlikely  action,  but  for  the  successful  poet  and 
dramatist  to  desire  such  advancement  above  the  none  too  reputable 
profession  of  acting  was  altogether  probable,  and  it  is  therefore  pretty 
certain  that  Shakespeare  instigated  his  father's  application.  The 
appeal  was  not  completely  successful  in  1596;  but  three  years  later,  upon 
a  renewed  application,  the  coat  of  arms  was  granted.  From  now  on, 
many  records  testify  to  Shakespeare's  prosperity.     In  1597  he  purchased 


SHAKESPEARE  13 177 

for  sixty  pounds  the. largest  house  in  Stratford,  called  New  Place.  In 
1601  he  inherited  from  his  father  the  two  houses  in  Henley  Street  which 
are  still  shown  to  visitors.  In  1602  he  bought,  for  £320,  more  than  a 
hundred  acres  of  arable  land  with  common  pasture  attaching  to  it; 
twenty  more  acres  were  purchased  eight  years  later.  In  1602  he 
acquired  a  cottage  and  garden  at  Stratford.  In  1605  he  bought  for 
£440  the  thirty-one-year  remainder  of  a  lease  of  the  Stratford  tithes,  a 
purchase  that  involved  him  in  considerable  litigation.  There  were  also 
investments  in  London.  In  1613  was  recorded  the  purchase  of  a  house 
near  the  Blackfriars  theatre.  From  16 15  there  is  a  record  of  a  suit  in 
which  he  and  other  owners  were  seeking  to  obtain  certain  deeds  securing 
their  property  in  the  precinct  of  Blackfriars.  This  is  but  one  of  many 
lawsuits  in  which  Shakespeare  was  engaged  as  principal  or  witness, 
several  of  them  brought  for  the  recovery  of  small  sums  of  money.  Per- 
haps the  most  interesting  is  the  recently  discovered  lawsuit  from  16 12. 
It  establishes  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  was  lodging,  possibly  from  1598 
to  1604,  in  the  house  of  one  Christopher  Mountjoy,  a  wig-maker,  at  the 
corner  of  Muggle  and  Silver  streets,  near  Cripplegate.  He  had,  in  1604, 
arranged  the  marriage  of  Mountjoy's  daughter  Mary  to  an  apprentice 
named  Stephen  Bellott;  and  when  Bellott  brought  suit  over  the  dowry 
eight  years  later  Shakespeare  was  an  important  wi'tness.  In  the  critical 
question  of  the  amount  of  the  dowry  promised,  however,  his  memory 
failed  him. 

The  other  witnesses  examined  speak  of  Shakespeare  with  respect 
and  esteem;  and  various  further. records  refer  to  him  as  a  man  of  probity 
and  of  substantial  fortune.  In  1598,  for  instance,  a  certain  Abraham 
Sturley  of  Stratford  writes  to  a  relative  in  London  referring  to  Shake- 
speare's willingness  to  purchase  certain  property  at  Shottery  and  suggest- 
ing that  he  be  urged  to  purchase  the  tithes.  In  the  same  year  Richard 
Quincy,  also  of  Stratford,  writes  to  ask  Shakespeare  for  thirty  pounds. 
A  year  later  Sturley  writes  to  Quiney  of  his  satisfaction  at  hearing  that 
Shakespeare  would  assist  with  money  needed  in  a  project  for  enlarging 
the  charter  of  Stratford;  and  a  letter  to  Quiney  from  his  father  about 
the  same  time  refers  to  bargaining  with  Shakespeare  for  financial  aid. 
The  exact  details  arc  not  of  great  importance;  the  evident  conclusion 
from  them  all  is  that  tlie  Stratford  folk  looked  up  to  Shakespeare  as  a 
man  of  means  whom  it  would  be  profitable  to  deal  with. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  account  for  the  means  at  his  disposal,  or  to  esti- 
mate them  roughly.  From  the  publication  of  his  poems  he  presumably 
had  some  return.  During  his  first  ten  years  of  authorship  he  probably 
received  about  £10  for  each  play  he  sold  to  the  managers,  or  since  he 
averaged  two  plays  a  year,  about  £20  annually.  In  the  terms  of  the 
purchasing  power  of  American  money  to-day,  this  would  mean  nearly 
$1000  a  year.  After  1600,  furthermore,  the  price  of  plays  rose  to  about 
double  that  customary  in  the  decade  preceding,  and  we  may  therefore 


13  I  78  SHAKESPEARE 

double  Shakespeare's  income  from  this  source.  As  an  actor  he  earned 
a  good  deal  more.  It  is  estimated  that  up  to  1599  his  salary  for  acting 
must  have  been  at  least  £100  a  year  ($5000).  And  still  more  profitable 
was  Shakespeare's  share  in  the  Globe  Theatre,  acquired  in  1599.  The 
income  from  a  single  share  in  this  theatre  was  more  than  £200  a  year 
($10,000),  and  Shakespeare  may  have  held  more  than  one  share.  After 
16 ID  he  was  part-owner  also  of  the  Blackfriars.  Now  over  and  above  all 
this  may  be  counted  whatever  Shakespeare  received  from  special  per- 
formances at  court,  in  possible  gratuities  from  Southampton,  and  from 
miscellaneous  sources.  The  total  will  be  a  substantial  sum,  especially 
after  1599;  more  than  $20,000  a  year,  according  to  Sir  Sidney  Lee. 
So  there  is  no  mystery  as  to  the  sources  of  the  wealth  that  Shakespeare 
had  to  lay  out  in  Stratford  and  in  London.  It  is  gratifying  to  know  that 
his  work  brought  him  fair  reward  in  legal  tender,  nor  need  anyone 
esteem  him  less  because  of  his  canny  sense  in  placing  it  where  it  would 
bring  returns,  or  in  insisting,  in  the  courts  if  necessary,  on  the  payment 
of  what  was  due  him. 

We  have  run  ahead  of  chronology  because  it  seemed  desirable  to 
state  the  facts  about  Shakespeare's  purchases  and  means  in  connection 
with  the  first  records  of  his  prosperity.  We  left  him  in  London  in  1594, 
by  which  time  he  had  been  successful  enough  as  actor  and  dramatist 
to  draw  a  violent  attack  upon  himself,  had  published  two  poems,  secured 
a  patron,  and  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  a  command  to  play  before  the 
Queen.  The  next  important  records  of  his  rising  fame  come  from  1598. 
In  that  year  his  name  first  appears  on  the  title-page  of  a  play,  in  the 
Quarto  editions  of  (R.ichard  II.)  and  (Love's  Labour's  Lost);  and  from 
this  time  on,  the  publishers  realized  the  value  of  his  name  or  his  initials 
on  the  title-pages  of  plays  and  poems,  and  even  used  the  name  to  usher 
into  print  poems  and  plays  that  Shakespeare  had  no  hand  in.  From 
the  same  year  comes  the  (Palladis  Tamia)  of  Francis  Meres,  a  book 
which,  in  a  comparison  of  the  English  writers  of  the  period  with  the 
authors  of  antiquity,  included,  among  other  flattering  references  to 
Shakespeare,  the  following  celebrated  passage: 

((As  the  soul  of  Euphorbus  was  thought  to  live  in  Pythagoras:  so  the  sweet 
witty  soul  of  Ovid  lives  in  mellifluous  and  honey-tongued  Shakespeare,  witness 
his  Venus  and  Adonis,  his  Lucrece,  his  sugared  sonnets  among  his  private  friends,  &c. 

((As  Plautus  and  Seneca  are  accounted  the  best  for  comedy  and  tragedy  among 
the  Latins,  so  Shakespeare  among  the  English  is  the  most  excellent  in  both  kinds 
for  the  stage;  for  comedy,  witness  his  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  his  Errors,  his  Love's 
Labour's  Lost,  his  Love's  Labour's  Won,  his  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  and 
his  Merchant  of  Venice:  for  tragedy,  his  Richard  II.,  Richard  III.,  Henry  IV., 
King  John,  Titus  Andronicus,  and  his  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

((As  Epius  Stolo  said,  that  the  muses  would  speak  with  Plautus'  tongue,  if 
they  would  speak  Latin:  so  I  say  that  the  muses  would  speak  with  Shakespeare's 
fine  filed  phrase,  if  they  would  speak  English.)) 


SHAKESPEARE  1 3 1/9 

Whether  many  men  of  Shakespeare's  time  were  conscious  of  the 
poet's  unquestionable  superiority  to  all  the  other  writers  of  the  age  is 
open  to  considerable  doubt,  but  that  his  place  at  least  among  the  first 
of  them  was  generally  admitted  is  evident  from  the  laudatory  references, 
too  numerous  to  mention,  to  the  poet  and  his  plays  from  this  date 
onward.  That  his  pre-eminence  over  Ben  Jonson,  for  instance,  or  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  was  apparent  to  most  of  the  people  who  knew  them 
or  saw  their  plays  can  hardly  be  asserted;  that  he  was  considered  as  at 
least  their  equal  is  more  certain.  Other  records,  though  scant  enough, 
serve  to  show  his  advancement  in  favor.  The  accession  of  King  James 
in  1603  rather  improved  his  situation  and  that  of  his  company.  In  that 
year  a  patent  was  issued  authorizing  Shakespeare  and  his  associates  to 
continue  their  dramatic  performances  directly  under  the  patronage  of 
James,  and  from  this  time  forward  Shakespeare's  company  is  known  as 
the  ((King's  JSIen.))  On  the  occasion  of  the  King's  formal  entry  into 
London,  in  the  next  year,  nine  actors  walked  in  the  procession,  and  the 
name  of  Shakespeare  stands  at  the  top  of  the  list  of  them.  And  at 
least  a  dozen  entries  in  the  Revels  Accounts  record  performances  by 
Shakespeare's  company  before  the  King.  Shakespeare  himself  seems 
to  have  given  up  acting,  however,  after  1604. 

But  he  continued  to  produce  plays  up  to  about  161 1.  Occasionally 
he  seems  to  have  taken  a  hand  in  dramatic  composition  after  that  date, 
as  in  his  collaboration,  now  generally  admitted,  with  Fletcher  in 
(Henry  VIII.)  and  (The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen)  as  late  as  161 2-13.  But 
after  161 1  his  writing  was  certainly  not  constant,  and  though  certain 
business  transactions  in  London  are  recorded  after  that  date,  it  seems 
evident  that  he  gradually,  if  not  definitely,  retired  to  Stratford.  He  sold 
his  shares  in  the  theatres,  and  toward  the  end  of  his  life  he  is  usually 
referred  to  as  ((William  Shakespeare,  gent.,  of  Stratford-on-Avon.)) 
In  1613  we  hear  of  a  payment  of  fourteen  shillings  to  him  for  supplying 
the  motto  of  an  heraldic  shield  designed  and  painted  by  the  actor 
Burbage  at  the  behest  of  the  Earl  of  Rutland.  In  January,  16 16, 
Shakespeare  had  his  will  drawn  up,  and  after  some  changes  he  signed  it 
two  months  later.     On  April  23rd  he  died. 

It  has  taken  a  great  deal  of  work  to  determine  the  order  in  which 
Shakespeare's  plays  were  written.  Apparently  the  dramatist  himself 
never  saw  one  of  them  through  the  press.  By  1622  seventeen  of  them 
had  got  into  print,  some  surreptitiously  and  others  seemingly  by  a  more 
regular  arrangement;  but  these  Quarto  editions,  as  they  are  called, 
seldom  help  much  to  indicate  the  date  of  composition.  The  Folio  of 
1623  contains  thirty-six  plays,  arranged  as  Comedies,  Histories,  and 
Tragedies,  but  without  indication  of  the  order  in  which  the  plays  were 
written.  Not  until  nearly  two  centuries  later,  in  fact,  was  much  light 
shed  on  the  important  question  of  the  sequence  of  the  plays  —  impor- 


13180  SHAKESPEARE 

tant  because  any  discussion  of  Shakespeare's  development  as  poet, 
dramatist,  or  thinker  is  impossible  without  an  approximate  answer  to 
that  question.  Such  an  answer  has  been  sought  and  found  by  scholars 
of  the  last  century  or  more,  and  in  their  searches  several  kinds  of  evi- 
dence have  been  utilized. 

External  evidence,  where  it  exists,  is  almost  invariably  the  best. 
Such  evidence  may  be  found  in  records  of  the  performance  of  a  play,  in 
quotation  from  it,  or  reference  of  any  nature  to  it,  in  another  document 
of  known  date.  Thus  we  know  that  (The  Comedy  of  Errors)  was 
written  before  Christmas,  1594,  because  there  is  a  record  of  its  per- 
formance at  Gray's  Inn  in  the  Christmas  season  of  that  year,  but  we  do 
not  know  exactly  how  long  before.  Again,  it  is  evident  that  the  twelve 
plays  mentioned  by  Meres  in  the  passage  above  quoted  must  all  have 
been  written  by  1598,  the  date  of  Meres's  own  book.  But  Meres  does 
not  date  any  play  more  precisely  than  this,  nor  does  he  indicate  the 
order  of  the  twelve  he  mentions.  If  external  evidence,  however,  does 
not  always  go  as  far  as  we  should  like,  it  is  usually  indisputable  as  far 
as  it  goes.  And  many  items  of  external  evidence  have  been  gathered 
that  help  us  to  date  various  plays. 

Internal  evidence  is  not  usually  so  precise  or  so  convincing  as  external. 
It  is  of  many  kinds.  The  pvirely  aesthetic  judgment  as  to  the  relative 
maturity  of  thought  or  of  poetic  expression,  while  never  negligible,  is 
perhaps  the  most  dangerous  kind  of  test,  since  it  must  always  be  to  some 
extent,  and  frequently  is  to  a  very  high  degree,  a  matter  of  personal 
taste.  Only  less  debatable,  for  the  same  reason,  are  verdicts  based 
solely  on  maturity  of  dramatic  construction  or  of  character-portrayal. 
Of  greater  value  is  the  evidence  afforded  by  the  more  objective  elements 
of  style.  As  Shakespeare  matures,  for  instance,  the  number  of  his 
allusions  to  classical  mythology,  as  also  the  number  of  his  quotations 
from  or  paraphrases  of  ancient  authors,  gradually  decreases;  so  does 
the  number  and  the  fancifulness  of  his  plays  on  words  and  his  far- 
fetched figures  of  speech.  Such  things  as  these,  exhibiting  a  gradual 
advance  from  artificiality  toward  reality,  can  be  roughly  counted  and 
put  beyond  debate,  for  whatever  they  are  worth.  Still  more  arithmetical 
are  the  tests  of  Shakespeare's  versification,  which,  responding  to  a 
general  movement  in  the  dramatic  blank  verse  of  the  time,  changed 
very  considerably,  though  gradually,  between  his  first  and  last  dramas. 
The  technic  of  his  verse  seems  to  have  been  relatively  unconscious  with 
him,  and  so  relatively  regular  and  valuable  as  evidence  for  our  purpose. 
Here  again  the  advance  is  from  formality  to  naturalness,  from  stiffness 
to  flexibility  of  speech.  The  most  telling  changes  that  took  place  in 
his  verse  were  those  from  frequency  to  rarity  of  rhyming  lines  and  from 
rarity  to  frequency  of  run-on  lines  (lines  at  the  end  of  which  no  pause  is 
possible  in  recitation),  of  feminine  endings  (lines  ending  in  an  extra 
syllable   beyond   the   conventional   five   feet),   and   of   speeches   ending 


SHAKESPEARE 


13181 


with  a  broken  line.  To  show  how  great  a  change  took  place  from  first 
to  last  it  might  be  said  that  in  (Love's  Labour's  Lost,)  perhaps  his  first 
comedy,  we  have  over  1000  rhymes,  in  (The  Tempest,)  probably  his 
last,  only  two;  in  (Love's  Labour's  Lost)  18  per  cent,  of  run-on  lines,  in 
(The  Tempest)  42  per  cent.;  in  (Love's  Labour's  Lost)  8  per  cent,  of 
feminine  endings,  in  (The  Tempest)  35  per  cent.;  in  (Love's  Labour's 
Lost)  10  per  cent,  of  speeches  ending  with  a  broken  line,  in  (The  Tem- 
pest) 85  per  cent.  This  is  of  course  an  extreme  illustration.  Few  plays, 
if  any,  will  show  an  advance  in  all  these  respects  over  their  predecessors, 
and  some  plays  show  evident  reversions  to  an  earlier  form;  there  is,  in  a 
word,  a  general  advance,  not  without  occasional  lapses,  but  there  is  no 
abrupt  change.  There  is  naturally  some  difference  between  two  plays 
written  about  the  same  time  but  on  widely  differing  themes,  and  there  are 
anomalies  that  arise  in  certain  cases  from  the  fact  that  a  play  written  in 
one  period  was  revised  or  augmented  in  another.  Valuable  in  spite  of  these 
allowances,  however,  metrical  evidence  is  often  sufficient  to  date  a  play, 
not  of  course  in  a  particular  year,  but  at  least  in  or  around  a  given  period. 
•  From  a  careful  interpretation  of  all  the  evidences  at  hand,  critics  have 
drawn  up  a  list  of  the  plays  in  their  approximate  order  and  with  their  ap- 
proximate dates.  We  cannot  be  sure  that  in  every  case  the  order  is  exactly 
correct  or  the  date  precise,  but  we  can  be  fairly  certain  that  in  few  cases  are 
we  more  than  a  year  or  two  out  of  the  way.  Certainly  the  list  is  accurate 
enough  to  warrant  the  broad  interpretation  of  the  dramatist's  develop- 
ment which  will  follow  the  table  of  the  works  here  inserted.  The  table  is 
taken  from  (The  Facts  about  Shakespeare,)  by  Neilson  and  Thorndike. 


PERIODS 

COMEDIES 

HISTORIES 

TRAGEDIES 

(Love's    Labour's    Lost,) 

1 59 1 

(I   Henry  V'l.,)  1590-1 
(2  Henry  VI.,)   1590-2 

I 

(Comedy  of  Errors,)  1591 

(3  Henry  VI.,)   1590-2 

(Two  GenUcmcn  of   Ver- 

(Richard III.,)  1593 

(Titus    Andronicus,) 

ona,)   1591-2 

(King  John,)  1593 

1593-4 

( Midsummer      Night's 

Dream,)  1594-5 

(Richard  II.,)  1595 

(Romeo     and      Juliet,) 

(Alcrehant     of      Venice,) 

1594-5 

1595-6 

(Taming  of   the    Shrew,) 

1596-7 

(I   Henry  IV,,)  1597 

II 

(Merry   Wives  of   Wind- 

sor,) 1598 

(2  Henry  IV.,)  1598 

(Much  Ado  About  Noth- 

ing,) 1599 

(Henry  V.,)  1599 

(Julius  Caesar,)  1599 

(As  You  Like  It,)    1599- 

1600 

(Twelfth  Night,)  1601 

I3I82 


SHAKESPEARE 


PERIODS 

COMEDIES 

HISTORIES 

TRAGEDIES 

(Troilus    and     Cressida,) 

1601-2 

(All's    Well    That    Ends 

Well,)  1602 

(Hamlet,)  1602,  1603 

(Measure    for    Measure,) 

(Othello,)  1604 

III 

1603 

(King  Lear,)  1605-6 
(Macbeth,)  1606 
(Timon  of  Athens,)  1607 

(Pericles,)  1607-8 

( Antony  and  Cleopatra,) 

1607-8 
(Coriolanus,)  1609 

(Cymbeline,)  1610 

(Winter's  Tale,)  161 1 

IV 

(Tempest,)  1611 

(Two    Noble    Kinsmen,) 

1612-13 

(Henry  VIII.,)  1612 

Although  the  lines  of  division  are  not  hard  and  fast,  the  plays  fall 
not  unnaturally  into  the  four  periods  indicated  in  the  table. 

The  first  period  is  one  of  imitation.  Several  different  types  of  plays 
were  popular  on  the  London  stage  when  Shakespeare  began  to  write  for 
it,  and  in  the  period  of  his  apprenticeship  the  poet  tried  his  hand,  one 
or  more  times,  at  nearly  every  kind.  In  the  first  period  history  plays 
predominate.  Apparently  his  first  work  was  done  on  plays  based  upon 
English  history,  and  in  the  earliest  of  these,  in  fact,  he  seems  to  be  doing 
piece-work  in  revision  or  collaboration  or  both.  Probably  he  wrote 
only  seven  or  eight  scenes  in  the  first  part  of  ( Henry  VL,)  and  probably 
he  revised,  or  aided  in  revising,  the  second  and  third  parts  of  that  play 
from  originals  written  by  another  man  or  by  other  men.  But  in  ( Richard 
III.)  he  produced  an  impressive  history  play  unassisted,  though  following 
closely  the  model  of  Marlowe  in  the  figure  of  his  hero  and  the  handling 
of  his  plot  and  verse.  Then  he  proceeds  to  (King  John,)  in  some  re- 
spects more  independent,  though  a  play  of  less  compelling  interest. 
During  the  same  years,  in  comedy,  he  wrote  (Love's  Labour's  Lost,) 
at  once  an  imitation  and  in  some  part  a  satire  of  the  kind  of  play  that 
Lyly  wrote;  (The  Comedy  of  Errors,)  a  farce  improving  on  the  play  of 
Plautus  which  suggested  it;  and  (The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,)  his 
earliest  romantic  comedy,  which,  with  less  specific  models,  has  re- 
semblances to  certain  plays  of  Greene  and  to  one  or  two  other  comedies 
preceding  it.  Toward  the  close  of  the  period  he  dipped  into  the  ((tragedy 
of  blood,))  as  written  by  Kyd  and  other  dramatists,  and  in  this  first 
tragedy  outdid  all  previous  authors  for  manifold  and  fearsome  horror 
on  the  stage. 


SHAKESPEARE  13183 

In  the  second  period  comedy  predominates.  Shakespeare  keeps  up 
his  work  in  history,  but  with  great  changes.  In  (Richard  II.,)  to  be 
sure,  at  the  beginning  of  the  period,  there  is  no  great  alteration  in 
dramatic  method  from  (King  John);  but  in  the  two  parts  of  (Henry 
IV.,)  toward  the  middle  of  the  period,  there  is  a  marked  change. 
Whether  from  a  feeling  that  the  facts  of  history  did  not  naturally  com- 
bine into  a  true  dramatic  plot,  or  for  other  reasons,  Shakespeare  departs 
from  the  common  model  of  the  history  play  and  by  the  introduction  of 
Falstaff  and  his  fellows  turns  half  of  the  play  into  pure  comedy.  So 
much  does  the  comic  interest  surpass  the  historical  in  these  plays, 
indeed,  that  in  another  drama  Shakespeare  takes  Falstaff  out  of  the 
historical  setting  and  devotes  to  him  a  separate  comedy,  (The  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor.)  In  (Henry  V.)  there  is_a  partial  return  to  history 
of  the  older  type.  After  that  Shakespeare  breaks  the  mold.  He  does 
no  more  in  English  history  except  to  take  a  hand  with  Fletcher,  at  the 
very  end  of  his  career,  in  (Henry  VIII.)  If  the  histories  of  this  period 
show  a  tendency  to  comedy,  the  two  tragedies  are  measurably  different 
from  most  of  Shakespeare's  tragic  dramas.  (Romeo  and  Juliet,) 
near  the  beginning  of  the  period,  is  a  tragedy  of  exuberant  romantic 
love  which  could  easily  be  turned  into  a  comedy,  and  which  was,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  frequently  given  as  a  comedy  with  the  few  changes  which 
that  transformation  requires.  But  even  taken  as  a  tragedy,  the  play 
leads  to  disaster  through  joy  and  glory  and  not  through  the  despair  and 
doom  of  (Hamlet)  or  (Lear)  or  (Macbeth.)  Nor  is  the  high  Roman 
tragedy  of  (Julius  Csesar, )  toward  the  end  of  the  period,  a  drama  of 
such  bitterness,  personal  and  social,  as  the  later  tragedies.  Now  along 
with  the  four  histories  and  the  two  tragedies  of  the  period  Shakespeare 
produced  seven  comedies:  the  delicate  fantasy  of  (The  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,)  the  romantic  story  of  love  and  revenge  in  (The  IVIer- 
chant  of  Venice,)  the  two  more  boisterous  comedies,  approaching  farce, 
of  (The  Taming  of  the  Shrew)  and  (The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,) 
and  the  three  consummate  comedies  of  love  and  laughter,  (Much  Ado 
About  Nothing,)    (As  You  Like  It,)  and  (Twelfth  Night.) 

The  third  period  is  one  of  tragedy.  Comedies  usher  it  in,  to  be  sure, 
but  they  are  comedies  that  show  the  seamy  side  of  life  in  frank  and  often 
bitter  realism.  In  these  traits  (Troilus  and  Cressida,)  (All's  Well 
That  Ends  Well,)  and  (Measure  for  Measure)  mark  a  departure  from 
the  mirthful  comedies  immediately  preceding  them  as  strikingly  as  do 
the  tragedies  that  now  begin.  In  (Hamlet,)  (Othello,)  (Lear,)  (Mac- 
beth,) and  (Timon)  Shakespeare  is  probing  the  darkest  problems  that 
mortality  can  meet,  and  in  general  the  gloom  grows  thicker  as  we 
progress  through  those  five  plays.  It  is  somewhat  alleviated  in  the 
luxuriant  poetry  that  immortalizes  the  story  of  wanton  love  in  (Antony 
and  Cleopatra,)  and  much  more  in  the  romantic  adventures  of  (Pericles,), 
presage  of  the  last  comedies  soon  to  come.     But  it  resumes  sway  in  the 


13  1 84  SHAKESPEARE 

final  tragedy  of  ( Coriolanus,)  the  last  story  of  a  hero  living  in  the  cursed 
spite  of  problems  he  cannot  solve. 

The  last  period  is  one  of  comedy  again,  or  tragicomedy,  —  of  ((dra- 
matic romances,))  as  the  latest  plays  are  usually  called.  The  turning  is 
seen  in  (Cymbeline) ;  the  triumphs  of  romance  are  (The  Winter's  Tale) 
and  (The  Tempest.)  With  these  stories  Shakespeare's  career  is  near 
its  close.  After  them  we  have  only  his  share  in  (The  Two  Noble  Kins- 
men) and  (Henry  VIII.)  to  complete  his  work. 

If  the  shifting  of  interest  from  one  species  of  drama  to  another  is 
thus  clear  from  the  list,  the  gain  in  power,  of  every  kind  required  of  the 
dramatist,  is  equally  clear.  The  growth  of  Shakespeare's  powers  is  at 
once  gradual  and  rapid.  It  is  not  without  certain  lapses,  due  apparently 
to  haste  in  some  cases  and  to  the  suspension  of  high  ambition  in  others. 
Thus  after  the  triumphs  of  lyric  fancy  in  (The  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream)  and  of  plot-making  and  character-drawing  in  (The  ISIerchant 
of  Venice,)  Shakespeare  was  willing  to  revamp  a  farce  into  (The  Taming 
of  the  Shrew);  after  the  creation  of  England's  greatest  comic  character 
in  Falstaff,  he  found  it  possible  in  great  measure  to  debase  that  character 
in  (The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,)  a  comedy  so  definitely  inferior  to 
others  of  the  period  as  to  incline  one  to  believe  the  story  that  it  was 
written  at  the  order  of  the  Queen  and  in  a  fortnight;  after  the  thunder- 
ings  of  (Lear)  and  the  supreme  poetry  of  (Antony  and  Cleopatra)  he 
was  content  to  join  hands  in  some  way  with  a  third-rate  poet  in  drama- 
tizing the  sprawling  story  of  adventure  that  constitutes  (Pericles.) 
Such  occasional  lapses  from  high  seriousness  are  consonant  with  all 
that  we  know  about  the  character  of  the  dramatist.  But  a  few  lapses  of 
this  kind  aside,  the  growth  of  Shakespeare's  genius  is  as  regular  as  with 
most  authors,  and  as  remarkable  perhaps  as  is  recorded  anywhere  in 
literature. 

In  his  very  earliest  work  at  piecing  out  plays  with  other  authors 
Shakespeare  exhibits  no  very  original  or  distinctive  gift.  In  the  three 
plays  of  (Henry  VI.)  the  sections  most  probably  his  are  indeed  better 
than  most  other  portions  of  the  plays,  in  verse,  in  dramatic  effect,  and 
in  grasp  of  character;  but  they  are  only  slightly  better,  and  are  in  no 
wise  different  in  aim  from  the  rest  of  the  plays.  Very  much  the  same 
statement  can  be  made  of  (Titus  Andronicus)  in  comparison  with  the 
preceding  plays  similar  to  it;  it  is  in  better  verse  than  almost  any  tragedy 
of  blood  before  it,  and  it  outdoes  every  tragedy  of  blood  in  the  main 
eflfect  common  to  them  all  —  terror.  But  in  (Richard  IIL)  we  have  the 
promise  at  least  of  genius.  True,  there  is  little  innovation  in  the  play: 
the  verse  is  Marlowe's  mighty  line,  the  diction  his  high-astounding 
terms,  the  hero-villain  his  Tamburlaine  made  English,  and  the  plot  is 
history  turned  into  drama  of  the  straight-line  type  rather  than  of  the 
•rise  and  fall  of  complication  and  solution;  but  the  result  is  a  play  that 
surpasses  Marlowe  in  dramatic  interest,  that  has  held  the  stage  from  its 


SHAKESPEARE  13185 

own  day  to  ours.  In  comedy  Shakespeare  starts  somewhat  more 
independently,  and  yet  humbly  enough.  (Love's  Labour's  Lost) 
should  have  shown  any  contemporary  that  a  new  genius  in  wielding 
English  words  had  arisen,  but  it  would  have  promised  not  a  great  deal 
more.  (The  Comedy  of  Errors)  displayed  capacity  for  fun  and  cunning 
in  plot-construction  —  made  easier  by  the  excellent  model  of  Plautus; 
it  is  definitely  but  not  immeasurably  in  advance  of  any  comedy  in 
English  up  to  its  time.  (The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona)  presages  all 
kinds  of  high  delight  to  come  in  the  romantic  comedies  of  a  few  years 
later;  but  we  see  the  promise  in  it  mainly  because  we  see  the  performance 
in  those  later  plays,  and  without  them  it  is  doubtful  if  we  should  see 
more  in  it  than  did,  presumably,  the  spectators  at  its  first  performance 
—  a  problem  of  romantic  love  distastefully  solved.  Taken  together,  the 
plays  of  the  first  period  show  a  talent  more  varied  than  any  that  had 
worked  in  English  drama  up  to  this  time  and  in  some  respects  perhaps 
a  little  more  powerful  than  any,  but  they  show  nothing  exalted,  nothing 
that  transcends  the  achievement  of  the  best  contemporary  plays.  If 
Shakespeare  had  died  at  the  end  of  this  period,  we  should  have  no  way 
of  knowing  that  the  greatest  dramatist  of  England  had  been  lost,  and 
half  a  dozen  other  authors  could  have  disputed  the  primacy  among 
Elizabethan  playwrights. 

But  no  such  dispute  could  arise  if  Shakespeare  had  completed  only 
the  earlier  works  of  the  second  period.  The  stage-carpentry  necessary 
to  his  trade  quickly  mastered,  he  sets  about  the  building  of  temples 
beyond  the  imagination  of  his  teachers.  For  fairy  charm,  for  rustic 
mirth,  and  equally  for  welding  the  most  uncompanionable  plots  into 
unison,  (The  Midsummer  Night's  Dream)  was  without  precedent  in 
English,  and  remains  unsurpassed.  For  exhibition  of  complex  character 
in  compelling  plot,  (The  Merchant  of  Venice)  was  unapproached  by 
any  comedy  preceding  it,  and  maintains  comparison  with  any  following. 
For  the  expression  of  the  love  of  youth  (Romeo  and  Juliet)  is  the  classic 
drama  of  modern  times.  For  fun-making  FalstafI  remains  peerless  in 
succeeding  literature.  For  the  rendition  of  Roman  history  in  tragedy 
(Julius  Caesar)  is  unrivaled  except  by  the  later  Roman  plays  of  Shake- 
speare himself.  For  sheer  delight  of  comic  dialogue,  winsome  woman- 
hood, graceful  poetry,  and  romantic  story,  the  three  great  comedies 
that  close  the  period  remain  unmatched  by  any  performances  of  modern 
times.  To  feel  that  in  this  period  Shakespeare  has  distanced  all  his 
piedecessors  in  poetic  phrasing  one  need  only  open  the  book  and  read. 
To  estimate  his  mastery  of  human  character,  it  is  enough  to  run  through 
the  dramatis  persona;  of  the  plays  and  notice  the  dozens  of  names  that 
are  now  household  words.  To  realize  his  skill  in  dramatic  composition, 
one  need  only  remember  that  every  play  from  this  period  except 
(Richard  II.)  is  still  popular  on  the  stage.  Had  Shakespeare  retired 
now,  we  should  have  known  him  for  our  greatest  dramatist. 


13186  SHAKESPEARE 

But  we  should  have  still  been  far  from  the  full  measure  of  his  powers. 
Precisely  because  they  are  pieces  of  such  rare  delight  the  plays  we  have 
just  been  mentioning  did  not  offer  opportunity  for  the  display  of  all  the 
profundity  of  vision  into  the  secret  chambers  of  the  human  heart,  or  all 
the  power  to  grapple  with  the  problems  of  humanity,  or  all  the  intensity 
of  poetic  utterance  that  are  exhibited  in  the  plays  of  the  third  period. 
Mature  stagecraft  and  matchless  gift  of  words  and  insight  into  character 
are  now  brought  to  work  upon  the  weightiest  matters  that  man  can 
deal  with,  and  the  result  is  the  supreme  drama  of  our  language.  Hamlet 
is  probably  at  once  the  most  inviting  and  the  most  baffling  character  in 
literature.  Othello  remains  the  example  above  all  others  of  the  de- 
ceived lover  whose  love  was  a  religion.  King  Lear  is  the  most  moving 
picture  of  doting  age  attended  by  filial  impiety.  Macbeth  has  no  equal 
as  a  portrait  of  ambition  gnawing  at  the  roots  of  character.  Antony 
and  Cleopatra  are  willing  victims  of  passion  rendered  into  poetry  the 
like  of  which  is  hardly  to  be  found  in  any  other  work.  To  pass  these 
plays  thus  in  a  breath  —  leaving  others  entirely  unmentioned  —  is  but 
to  state  one  aspect  of  each  in  which  it  may  be  pronounced  literally 
peerless. 

And  yet  if  Shakespeare  had  retired  at  the  end  of  his  third  period, 
we  should  miss  something  that  the  world  would  be  greatly  loath  to  lose. 
Whatever  it  may  mean  about  the  man,  if  anything,  it  means  something 
to  us  to  know  that  Shakespeare  took  leave  of  the  stage  in  happier  plays. 
The  last  romances  show  a  serenity  more  calm,  a  seeming  faith  in  final 
good  more  settled,  than  do  the  plays  of  any  other  period.  They  have 
less  to  do  with  rollicking  good  humor  than  the  comedies  of  the  second 
period,  and  deal  more  with  human  nature  tried  but  found  true,  passing 
through  tribulation  to  final  reward.  So  it  is  with  a  message  of  satisfac- 
tion and  good  cheer,  founded  not  on  innocence  but  on  knowledge,  that 
(The  Winter's  Tale)  and  (The  Tempest)  complete  the  works  in  a  strain 
less  crashing  but  not  less  lofty. 

There  is  no  intention  here  of  praising  Shakespeare.  Only  the  critic 
specially  endowed  of  heaven  should  attempt  that.  If  critical  adjectives 
have  been  copious,  they  have  been  meant  only  to  show  the  shifting  of 
Shakespeare's  interest  from  play  to  play  as  he  progressed  and  the 
growth  of  his  gifts  from  normal  human  beginnings  to  unrivaled  strength. 
With  these  considerations  one  other  question  naturally  arises:  what 
were  the  reasons  for  Shakespeare's  turning  from  comedy  to  tragedy 
and  from  tragedy  to  romance?  Why  did  he  progress  from  buoyancy 
to  bitterness  and  then  to  comfort  and  reconciliation? 

In  some  quarters  it  is  still  thought  —  as,  for  long,  it  was  widely 
believed  —  that  these  changes  in  the  plays  came  from  changes  in  the 
thought  and  ffeeling  of  the  dramatist.  It  was  argued  —  frequently 
with  the  support  of  one  interpretation  or  another  of  the  ((story))  in  the 
sonnets  —  that  Shakespeare's  life  was  full  of  happiness  in  the  period  of 


SHAKESPEARE  13187 

comedy,  that  misfortune  and  resultant  gloom  overcame  him  in  the 
tragic  period,  but  that  in  the  end,  at  the  time  of  the  romaijices,  he  had 
become  reconciled;  and  that  the  plays  of  the  three  periods  voice  these 
emotions  of  the  dramatist.  While  all  this  cannot  be  entirely  disproved, 
there  is  exceptionally  little  likelihood  that  it  is  true.  The  story  in  the 
sonnets  has  never  been  made  out  in  any  essential  detail.  It  may  be  all 
fiction,  as  the  majority  of  sonnet  stories  were;  at  least  it  is  more  than 
probable  that  the  story  represents  no  vital  experience  of  the  poet.  No 
single  record  points  to  any  reason  why  Shakespeare  should  have  been 
unhappier  during  the  six  years  after  1600  than  in  the  six  years  before. 
On  the  contrary,  the  one  great  sorrow  that  we  know  came  to  him  —  the 
death  of  his  son  —  occurred  at  the  time  he  was  writing  comedy  and 
farce;  and  no  sorrow  is  recorded  from  the  years  when  he  was  writing 
(Lear)  and  (Timon. )  The  theory  is  therefore  untenable  for  lack  of 
facts,  and  since  what  facts  we  have  tell  against  it. 

It  is  more  likely,  as  is  coming  to  be  believed,  that  in  changing  from 
one  kind  of  play  to  another  Shakespeare  was  largely  following  the  vogue 
of  the  time.  This  is  consonant  with  his  genius.  He  was  a  man  intent 
not  so  much  on  inventing  something  that  no  one  else  had  thought  of 
as  on  perfecting  what  was  promising  in  other  men's  inventions  —  on 
adopting  their  forms  and  filling  them  with  meaning.  Now  it  has  been 
shown  that  up  to  nearly  1600  romantic  comedy  was  in  high  vogue, 
and  it  is  presumable  that  Shakespeare  was  moved  simply  to  write  the 
kind  of  play  most  successful  at  the  time,  and  owing  to  native  genius 
produced  the  masterpieces  of  the  type.  Around  1600  romantic  comedy 
was  severely  criticized  and  lost  favor  considerably;  popular  taste  swung 
to  realistic  comedy  and  to  tragedy.  Shakespeare  responded  with  his 
more  cynical  comedies  and  with  the  tragedies,  and  again  produced  the 
masterpieces.  When  such  plays  had  mainly  held  the  stage  for  somewhat 
less  than  a  decade,  a  relatively  new  type  of  romantic  tragicomedy  came 
into  favor;  and  Shakespeare's  last  romances  are  apparently  a  response 
to  this  new  form.  To  explain  the  shifting  of  his  interests  at  least 
partially  in  this  manner  is  not  unnatural,  and  it  subtracts  nothing  from 
his  glory. 

If  the  record  of  Shakespeare's  life  is  fairly  continuous,  and  the 
growth  of  his  powers  as  dramatist  and  poet  adequately  clear,  the  picture 
of  the  man  himself  is  still  somewhat  dim.  Few  lovers  of  his  plays  can 
have  avoided  asking  the  question,  what  sort  of  man  was  Shakespeare? 
And  the  world  has  seen  a  considerable  number  of  books  and  essays  that 
attempt  an  answer  to  that  question.  But  the  question  is  fraught  with 
difficulty.  Most  of  the  facts  recorded  of  Shakespeare's  life  are  such  as 
shed  little  light  upon  his  character.  And  outside  of  the  Sonnets,  at 
least,  —  and  no  interpretation  of  the  Sonnets  has  advanced  much 
beyond  guesswork,  —  Shakespeare  is  one  of  the  most  dramatic  of 
authors,  which  is  to  say  that  it  is  his  genius  to  reveal  others  and  to 


13X88  SHAKESPEARE 

conceal  himself.  No  one  doubts  that  there  was  a  powerful  personality 
behind  the  plays,  and  few  would  doubt  that  their  author  had,  in  Dry- 
den's  words,  «the  largest  and  most  comprehensive  soul»  possessed  by 
any  English  poet;  it  is  only  when  we  try  to  be  much  more  specific  that 
we  are  in  danger.  Yet  from  the  very  fact  that  Shakespeare  is  habitually 
silent  about  his  own  opinions  while  the  characters  in  the  plays  are  giving 
voice  to  theirs  we  gather  one  truth  about  him,  namely  that  he  was  a 
man  with  no  gospel  that  he  felt  he  must  expound.  This  is  a  cardinal 
fact  about  him,  and  it  implies  a  good  deal  else;  and  certain  other  infer- 
ences may  be  drawn,  from  his  plays  and  from  the  record  of  his  life, 
without  passing  over  into  the  conjectural. 

The  records  point  to  a  man  who  was  upright  and  good-humored. 
((Gentle))  is  one  of  the  favorite  terms  for  him  among  his  friends,  though 
this  should  not  be  taken  in  a  sentimental  sense,  since  there  is  evidence 
enough  that  he  was  conscious  of  his  own  dignity  and  of  the  justice  that 
was  due  to  him.  That  he  had  a  sense  of  humor  is  beyond  question. 
No  man  without  the  highest  measure  of  that  could  have  created  Fal- 
staff  or  any  of  a  score  of  other  characters  in  the  plays.  Though  it  does 
not  necessarily  follow  that  Shakespeare  was  habitually  merry  in  com- 
pany, we  have  the  testimony  of  Fuller  that  his  genius  was  ((generally 
jocular))  and  that  in  the  wit-combats  with  Ben  Jonson  he  displayed  the 
less  learned  but  the  more  nimble  wit:  He  was  catholic  in  his  sympathies, 
and  could  be  at  home  with  many  kinds  of  men,  good  and  bad,  wise  and 
foolish,  or  he  could  hardly  have  reproduced  so  many  types  of  them  with 
so  much  relish.  The  ((open  and  free  nature))  which  Jonson  accords 
him  naturally  found  least  pleasure  in  strait-laced  persons,  in  pedants, 
for  instance,  and  in  puritans.  Disliking  pedants,  he  was  himself  in  no 
strict  sense  a  scholar;  a  man  of  wide  reading,  as  has  been  proved,  and 
of  much  general  information,  but  far  from  scholastic.  In  the  affairs  of 
every  day  he  was  capable  and  diligent;  there  is  no  evidence  of  the  ((artistic 
temperament,))  as  that  term  is  now  used.  In  politics  we  are  fairly  sure 
that  he  was  inclined  to  aristocratic  sympathies,  though  perhaps  not 
more  so  than  most  of  his  fellow-dramatists.  Of  his  religion  little  can  be 
said  with  confidence.  He  knew  nature  intimately,  and  he  loved  the 
sports  of  the  field.  He  knew  human  nature  in  all  its  tragicomic  expe- 
rience as  no  other  English  writer  has  known  it.  And  for  its  portrayal  he 
had  a  matchless  gift  of  words. 


SHAKESPEARE  13189 


SONGS  AND  THEIR  SETTINGS 

ARIEL 

From  (The  Tempest) 

ARIEL — All  hail,  great  master;  grave  sir,  hail.      I  come 
,  To  answer  thy  best  pleasure;  be  't  to  fly, 

To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curled  clouds:  to  thy  strong  bidding  task 
Ariel,  and  all  his  quality. 

Prosper 0 —  Hast  thou,  spirit, 

Performed  to  point  the  tempest  that  I  bade  thee  ? 

Ariel —    To  every  article. 

I  boarded  the  king's  ship;  now  on  the  beak. 

Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 

I  flamed  amazement:  sometimes  I'd  divide, 

And  burn  in  many  places;  on  the  topmast, 

The  yards  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distinctly. 

Then  meet  and  join.     Jove's  lightnings,  the  precursors 

O'  the  dreadful  thunder-claps,  more  momentary 

And  sight-outrunning  were  not;  the  fire,  and  cracks 

Of  sulphurous  roaring,  the  most  mighty  Neptune 

Seem  to  besiege,  and  make  his  bold  waves  tremble,— 

Yea,  his  dread  trident  shake. 

Prospero —  My  brave  spirit! 

Who  was  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  this  coil 
Would  not  infect  his  reason  ? 

Ariel —  Not  a  soul 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,  and  played 
Some  tricks  of  desperation.     All  but  mariners 
Plunged  in  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessel. 
Then  all  a-fire  with  me:  the  king's  son,  Ferdinand, 
With  hair  up-staring  (then  like  reeds,  not  hair). 
Was  the  first  man  that  leaped ;  cried.  <*  Hell  is  empty. 
And  all  the  devils  are  here.'* 

Prospero —  Why,  that's  my  spirit! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ariel —  Close  by,  my  master. 

Prospero  — 

But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe  ? 

Ariel —  Not  a  hair  perished; 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish, 


j^igo  SHAKESPEARE 

But  fresher  than  before :  and  as  thou  bad'st  me, 
In  troops  I  have  dispersed  them  'bout  the  isle. 
The  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself. 
Whom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting, 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

Prosper 0 —  Of  the  king's  ship, 

The  mariners  say  how  thou  hast  disposed. 
And  all  the  rest  o'  the  fleet  ? 

Ariel —  Safely  in  harbor 

Is  the  king's  ship;  in  the  deep  nook,  where  once 
Thou  call'dst  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still-vexed  Bermoothes,  there  she's  hid: 
The  mariners  all  under  hatches  stow'd; 
Whom,  with  a  charm  joined  to  their  suffered  labor, 
I  have  left  asleep ;  and  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet. 
Which  I  dispersed,  they  all  have  met  again. 
And  all  upon  the  Mediterranean  float. 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples, 

Supposing  that  they  saw  the  king's  ship  wrecked. 
And  his  great  person  perish. 


ARIEL'S   SONGS 

Ariel  enters,  invisible,  playing  and  singing;   Prince  Ferdinand  following 

him 

Ariel  sings 

COME  unto  these  yellow  sands. 
And  then  take  hands: 
Court'sied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd 
The  wild  waves  whist, 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there;  I 

And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 
Hark,  hark ! 

Burden  —  Bow,  wow  \^dispersedly\ 
The  watch-dogs  bark : 

Burden  —  Bow,  wow. 
Hark,  hark !     I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticlere 
Cry  Cock-a-doodle-doo. 


SHAKESPEARE  •  1319I 

Ferdinand  — 

Where  should  this  music  be  ?  i'  th'  air,  or  th'  earth  ?  — 

It  sounds  no  more;  —  and  sure,  it  waits  upon 

Some  god  o'  the  island.     Sitting  on  a  bank, 

Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wreck. 

This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters, 

Allaying  both  their  fury  and  my  passion. 

With  its  sweet  air;  thence  I  have  followed  it, 

"Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather;  —  but  'tis  gone. — 

No,  it  begins  again. 

Ariel  sifigs 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes: 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 

But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 

Into  something  rich  and  strange. 

Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell: 

Burde7i  —  Ding-dong. 

Hark!   now  I  hear  them, —  ding-dong,  bell. 
Ferdinand — 

The  ditty  does  remember  my  drowned  father. — 

This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 

That  the  earth  owes  —  I  hear  it  now  above  me. 

Ariel,  singing,  helps  to  attire  Prospero 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I; 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie: 

There  I  couch.     When  owls  do  cry, 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly, 

After  summer,  merrily: 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now. 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

Prospero  — 

Why,  that's  my  dainty  Ariel!     I  shall  miss  thee; 
But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom;  —  so,  so,  so. — 
To  the  king's  ship,  invisible  as  thou  art: 
There  shalt  thou  find  the  mariners  asleep 
Under  the  hatches;   the  master,  and  the  boatswain. 
Being  awake,  enforce  them  to  this  place. 
And  presently,  I  pr'ythee. 
Ariel —       I  drink  the  air  before  me,  and  return 

Or  e'er  your  pulse  twice  beat.  \Exit  Ariel 


3192  SHAKESPEARE 

MARRIAGE   SONG 
From  <The  Tempest  > 


JUNO  —  Honor,  riches,  marriage,  blessing. 
Long  continuance,  and  increasing, 
Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you! 
Juno  sings  her  blessings  on  you. 
Earth's  increase,  foison  plenty, 
Barns,  and  garners  never  empty; 
Vines,  with  clustering  bunches  growing; 
Plants,  with  goodly  burden  bowing; 
Rain  come  to  you,  at  the  farthest, 
In  the  very  end  of  harvest! 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you; 
Ceres's  blessing  so  is  on  you. 


SILVIA 
From  <Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona* 

WHO  is  Silvia?  what  is  she, 
That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  as  free: 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 
That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness.  — 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

.To  help  him  of  his  blindness; 
And  being  helped,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing. 

That  Silvia  is  excelling; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling: 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 


i 


SHAKESPEARE  X3I93 

FALSTAFF   TORMENTED   BY   THE  SUPPOSED    FAIRIES 
From  the  <  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  > 

EVANS  — 
Lock  hand  in  hand;  yourselves  in  order  set; 
And  twenty  glow-worms  shall  our  lanterns  be, 
To  guide  our  measure  round  about  the  tree. 
But  stay!  I  smell  a  man  of  middle  earth. 
Falstaff  [to  himself]  —  Heavens  defend  me  from  that  Welsh  fairy,  lest 

he  transform  me  to  a  piece  of  cheese! 
Pistol —  Vile  worm,  thou  wast  o'erlooked  even  in  thy  birth. 
Queen —  With  trial-fire  touch  me  his  finger-end: 

If  he  be  chaste,  the  flame  will  back  descend, 
And  turn  him  to  no  pain;  but  if  he  start. 
It  is  the  flesh  of  a  corrupted  heart. 
Pistol —  A  trial!  come. 
Evans —  Come,  will  this  wood  take  fire? 

[They  burn  Falstaff  with  their  takers.] 

Falstaff — 

Oh,  oh,  oh! 
Queen —  Corrupt,  corrupt,  and  tainted  in  desire! 

About  him,  fairies,  sing  a  scornful  rhyme; 

And  as  you  trip,  still  pinch  him  to  your  time. 

Song  by  One 

Fie  on  sinful  fantasy! 
Fie  on  lust  and  luxury! 
Lust  is  but  a  bloody  fire, 
Kindled  with  unchaste  desire. 
Fed  in  heart;  whose  flames  aspire, 
As  thoughts  do  blow  them  higher  and  higher. 

Chorus 

Pinch  him,  fairies,  mutually; 

Pinch  him  for  his  villainy; 
Pinch  him,  and  burn  him,  and  turn  him  about, 
Till  candles,  and  starlight,  and  moonshine  be  out! 


13ig4  SHAKESPEARE 

SONG:   TAKE,  OH!   TAKE 
From  <  Measure  for  Measure  > 

TAKE,  oh!   take  those  lips  away, 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn: 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, — 
Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain. 

Hide,  oh,  hide  those  hills  of  snow, 
Which  thy  frozen  bosom  bears, 

On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow 
Are  of  those  that  April  wears; 

But  first  set  my  poor  heart  free, 

Bound  in  icy  chains  by  thee. 


BALTHAZAR'S   SONG 

From  <Much  Ado  About  Nothing) 

SIGH  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more. 
Men  were  deceivers  ever; 
One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore; 
To  one  thing  constant  never. 
Then  sigh  not  so. 
But  let  them  go, 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny; 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into,  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  mo, 
Or  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy; 
The  frauds  .of  men  were  ever  so. 
Since  summer  first  was  leavy. 
Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go. 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny; 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into,  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 


SHAKESPEARE  1319S 

LADY  HERO'S  EPITAPH 
From  <Much  Ado  About  Nothing  > 

Scene:   The  Inside  of  a  Church.    Enter  Don  Pedro,  Ciaudio,  and  Attend- 
ants, with  music  and  tapers. 


I  C 


LAUDio  —  Is  this  the  monument  of  Leonato? 
Attendants  —  It  is,  my  lord. 
Ciaudio     [reads]  — 

Epitaph 

Done  to  death  by  slanderous  tongues 

Was  the  Hero  that  here  lies: 
Death,  in  guerdon  of  her  wrongs, 

Gives  her  fame  which  never  dies. 
So  the  life  that  died  with  shame 
Lives  in  death  with  glorious  fame. 
Hang  thou  there  upon  the  tomb. 
Praising  her  when  I  am  dumb. — 
Now,  music,  sound,  and  sing  your  solemn  hymn. 

Song 

Pardon,  goddess  of  the  night. 
Those  that  slew  thy  virgin  bright; 
For  the  which,  with  songs  of  woe, 
Round  about  her  tomb  we  go. 
Midnight,  assist  our  moan; 
Help  us  to  sigh  and  groan, 

Heavily,  heavily: 
Graves,  yawn,  and  yield  your  dead, 
Till  death  be  uttered, 

Heavily,  heavily. 


WHITE   AND   RED 
From  <  Love's  Labour's  Lost> 

MOTH  —  If  she  be  made  of  white  and  red. 
Her  faults  will  ne'er  be  known; 
For  blushing  cheeks  by  faults  are  bred, 
And  fears  by  pale  white  shown: 
Then,  if  she  fear,  or  be  to  blame. 

By  this  you  shall  not  know; 
For  still  her  cheeks  possess  the  same, 
Which  native  she  doth  owe. 


13 196  SHAKESPEARE 

LOVE'S   RHAPSODY 
From  <  Love's  Labour's  Lost  * 

SO  SWEET  a  kiss  the  golden  sun  gives  not 
To  those  fresh  morning  drops  upon  the  rose, 

As  thine  eye-beams,  when  their  fresh  rays  have  smote 
The  dew  of  night  that  on  my  cheeks  down  flows. 
Nor  shines  the  silver  moon  one  half  so  bright 

Through  the  transparent  bosom  of  the  deep, 
As  doth  thy  face  through  tears  of  mine  give  light: 

Thou  shin'st  in  every  tear  that  I  do  weep, — 
No  drop  but  as  a  coach  doth  carry  thee ; 

So  ridest  thou  triumphing  in  my  woe. 
Do  but  behold  the  tears  that  swell  in  me, 

And  they  thy  glory  through  my  grief  will  show: 
But  do  not  love  thyself;  then  thou  wilt  keep 
My  tears  for  glasses,  and  still  make  me  weep. 
O  queen  of  queens,  how  far  thou  dost  excel, 
No  thought  can  think,  nor  tongue  of  mortal  tell. 


SONG:   SPRING  AND  WINTER 
From  < Love's  Labour's  Lost* 

SPRING 

WHEN  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue. 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue, 

Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight,- 
The  cuckoo  then  on  every  tree 

Mocks  married  men,  for  thus  sings  he: 
Cuckoo, 
Cuckoo,  cuckoo, —  oh,  word  of  fear! 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear. 

When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straws, 
And  merry  larks  are  plowmen's  clocks. 

When  turtles  tread,  and  rooks,  and  daws, 

And  maidens  bleach  their  summer  smocks, - 

The  cuckoo  then  on  every  tree 

Mocks  married  men,  for  thus  sings  he : 
Cuckoo, 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo, —  oh,  word  of  fear! 

Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear. 


r 


SHAKESPEARE  ,  13197 

WINTER 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick,  the  shepherd,  blows  his  nail, 

And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail. 

When  blood  is  nipped,  and  ways  be  foul, — 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl: 
To-who, 

Tu-whit,  to-who, —  a  merry  note, 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw; 

When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl. 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl: 
To-who, 

Tu-whit,  to-who, —  a  merry  note. 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 


PUCK 
From  <  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  > 

Scene :  A  Wood  near  Athens.     Enter  a  Fairy  atid  Puck  at  opposite  doors. 


P 


UCK —         How  now,  spirit!  whither  wander  you? 
Fairy —       Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorovigh  bush,  thorough  brier. 

Over  park,  over  pale. 
Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 
I  do  wander  everywhere. 
Swifter  than  the  moone's  sphere; 
And  I  serve  the  fairy  queen. 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green. 
The  cowslips  all  her  pensioners  be: 
In  their  gold  cups  spots  you  see; 
Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors, 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savors. 

1  must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here. 

And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

Farewell,  thou  lob  of  spirits:  I'll  be  gone. 

Our  queen  and  all  her  elves  come  here  anon. 


13 198  SHAKESPEARE 

Puck —    The  king  doth  keep  his  revels  here  to-night. 

Take  heed  the  queen  come  not  within  his  sight: 

For  Oberon  is  passing  fell  and  wrath, 

Because  that  she,  as  her  attendant,  hath 

A  lovely  boy,  stol'n  from  an  Indian  king; 

She  never  had  so  sweet  a  changeling: 

And  jealous  Oberon  would  have  the  child 

Knight  of  his  train,  to  trace  the  forests  wild; 

But  she  perforce  withholds  the  loved  boy, 

Crowns  him  with  flowers,  and  makes  him  all  her  joy: 

And  now  they  never  meet  in  grove,  or  green, 

By  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  starlight  sheen, 

But  they  do  square;  that  all  their  elves,  for  fear. 

Creep  into  acorn  cups,  and  hide  them  there. 

Fairy —  Either  I  mistake  your  shape  and  making  quite, 
Or  else  you  are  that  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite 
Called  Robin  Goodfellow.     Are  you  not  he 
That  frights  the  maidens  of  the  villagery; 
Skims  milk,  and  sometimes  labors  in  the  quern, 
And  bootless  makes  the  breathless  housewife  chum; 
And  sometimes  makes  the  drink  to  bear  no  barm; 
Misleads  night-wanderers,  laughing  at  their  harm  ? 
Those  that  Hobgoblin  call  you,  and  sweet  Puck, 
You  do  their  work,  and  they  shall  have  good  luck: 
Are  not  you  he? 

Puck —  Fciiry,  thou  speak'st  aright: 

I  am  that  merry  wanderer  of  the  night. 
I  jest  to  Oberon,  and  make  him  smile, 
When  I  a  fat  and  bean-fed  horse  beguile, 
Neighing  in  likeness  of  a  filly  foal. 
And  sometimes  lurk  I  in  a  gossip's  bowl. 
In  very  likeness  of  a  roasted  crab; 
And  when  she  drinks,  against  her  lips  I  bob, 
And  on  her  withered  dewlap  pour  the  ale. 
The  wisest  aunt  telling  the  saddest  tale, 
Sometime  for  three-foot  stool  mistaketh  me: 
Then  slip  I  from  her  bum,  down  topples  she, 
And  " tailor >^  cries,  and  falls  into  a  cough; 
And  then  the  whole  quire  hold  their  hips  and  laugh, 
And  waxen  in  their  mirth,  and  neeze,  and  swear 
A  merrier  hour  was  never  wasted  there. — 
But  room.  Fairy:  here  comes  Oberon. 

Oberon  —  My  gentle  Puck,  come  hither:  thou  remember'st 
Since  once  I  sat  upon  a  promontory, 


SHAKESPEARE  1 3 199 

And  heard  a  mermaid  on  a  dolphin's  back 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath, 
That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song, 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 
To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music. 

Puck —  I  remember. 

Oberon  —  That  very  time  I  saw  (but  thou  couldst  not) 
Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  armed :  a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal  throned  by  the  west, 
And  loosed  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 
As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts; 
But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 
Quenched  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  watery  moon, 
And  the  imperial  votaress  passed  on. 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 
Yet  marked  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell: 
It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower. 
Before  milk-white,  now  purple  with  love's  wound. 
And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 
Fetch  me  that  flower, —  the  herb  I  showed  thee  once: 
The  juice  of  it  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid, 
Will  make  or  man  or  woman  madly  dote 
Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  is  seen. 
Fetch  me  this  herb;  and  be  thou  here  again 
Ere  the  leviathan  can  swim  a  league. 

Puck —    I'd  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 
In  forty  minutes. 


o 


THE   DIVERSIONS   OF  THE   FAIRIES 

From  <  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  > 
BERON — 

Fare  thee  well,  nymph :  ere  he  do  leave  this  grove, 
Thou  Shalt  fly  him,  and  he  shall  seek  thy  love. — 

Re-enter  Puck 


Hast  thou  the  flower  there  ?     Welcome,  wanderer. 

Puck —     Ay,  there  it  is. 

Oberon —  I  pray  thee,  g^ve  it  me. 

I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows. 
Where  oxlips  and  the  nodding  violet  grows; 


13200 


SHAKESPEARE 


Quite  overcanopied  with  lush  woodbine, 
With  sweet  musk-roses,  and  with  eglantine : 
There  sleeps  Titania,  some  time  of  the  night, 
Lulled  in  these  bowers  with  dances  and  delight; 
And  there  the  snake  throws  her  enameled  skin, — 
Weed  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in : 
And  with  the  juice  of  this  I'll  streak  her  eyes, 
And  make  her  full  of  hateful  fantasies. 
Take  thou  some  of  it,  and  seek  through  this  grove. 
A  sweet  Athenian  lady  is  in  love 
With  a  disdainful  youth:  anoint  his  eyes; 
But  do  it  when  the  next  thing  he  espies 
May  be  the  lady.     Thou  shalt  know  the  man 
By  the  Athenian  garments  he  hath  on. 
Effect  it  with  some  care,  that  he  may  prove 
More  fond  on  her  than  she  upon  her  love. 
And  look  thou  meet  me  ere  the  first  cock  crow. 
Puck —      Fear  not,  my  lord:  your  servant  shall  do  so. 

{^Exeunt. 

Scene:   A?iother  part  of  the  Wood.     Enter  Titania,  with  her  train. 

Titania  —  Come,  now  a  roundel,  and  a  fairy  song;  ' 

Then,  for  the  third  part  of  a  minute,  hence: 
Some  to  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds; 
Some  war  with  rear-mice  for  their  leathern  wings. 
To  make  my  small  elves  coats;  and  some  keep  back 
The  clamorous  owl,  that  nightly  hoots,  and  wonders 
At  our  quaint  spirits.     Sing  me  now  asleep; 
Then  to  your  offices,  and  let  me  rest. 

fairies'  song 

First  Fairy — You  spotted  snakes,  with  double  tongue. 
Thorny  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen; 
Newts,  and  blind- worms,  do  no  wrong; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen. 

CHORUS 

Philomel,  with  melody. 

Sing  now  your  sweet  lullaby: 

Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby;  lulla,  luUa,  lullaby. 

Never  harm. 

Nor  spell  nor  charm, 


\ 


11 


SHAKESPEARE  13201 

Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh ; 
So  good-night,  with  lullaby. 

Second  Fairy —    Weaving  spiders,  come  not  here; 

Hence,  you  long-legged  spinners,  hence: 
Beetles  black,  approach  not  near; 
Worm,  nor  snail,  do  no  offense. 

CHORUS 

Philomel,  with  melody. 

Sing  now  your  sweet  lullaby: 

Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby ;  lulla,  lulla,  lullaby. 

Never  harm, 

Nor  spell  nor  charm, 

Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh; 

So  good-night,  with  lullaby. 

Second  Fairy —    Hence,  away!  now  all  is  well. 
•  One,  aloof,  stand  sentinel. 

[Exeunt  Fairies.      Titania  sleeps. 

Enter  Oberon 

Oberon —       What  thou  seest,  when  thou  dost  wake, 

[Anointing  Titania' s  eyelids. '\ 

Do  it  for  thy  true  love  take; 

Love,  and  languish  for  his  sake : 

Be  it  ounce,  or  cat,  or  bear, 

Pard,  or  boar  with  bristled  hair. 

In  thy  eye  that  shall  appear 

When  thou  wak'st,  it  is  thy  dear. 

Wake  when  some  vile  thing  is  near.  [Exit. 


THE   FAIRIES'   WEDDING   CHARM 

From  < Midsummer  Night's  Dream' 

Enter  Puck  zoit/i  a  broom  on  his  shoulder 


P 


UCK —  Now  the  hungry  lion  roars. 

And  the  wolf  behowls  the  moon; 

Whilst  the  heavy  plowman  snores. 
All  with  weary  task  fordone. 

Now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow. 

Whilst  the  screech-owl,  screeching  loud, 


I3202  SHAKESPEARE 

Puts  the  wretch  that  lies  in  woe, 

In  remembrance  of  a  shroud. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night 

That  the  graves,  all  gaping  wide, 
Every  one  lets  forth  his  sprite, 

In  the  church-way  paths  to  glide. 
And  we  fairies,  that  do  run 

By  the  triple  Hecate's  team, 
From  the  presence  of  the  sun. 

Following  darkness  like  a  dream. 
Now  are  frolic;  not  a  mouse 
Shall  disturb  this  hallowed  house: 
I  am  sent  with  broom  before, 
To  sweep  the  dust  behind  the  door. 

Enter  Oberon  and  Titania  with  all  their  train 

Oberon —  Through  the  house  give  glimmering  light. 
By  the  dead  and  drowsy  fire ; 
Every  elf,  and  fairy  sprite, 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier: 
And  this  ditty  after  me 
Sing,  and  dance  it  trippingly. 
Titania  —  First,  rehearse  your  song  by  rote, 
To  each  word  a  warbling  note : 
Hand  in  hand  with  fairy  grace 
Will  we  sing,  and  bless  this  place. 

THE   SONG 

Now,  until  the  break  of  day, 

Through  this  house  each  fairy  stray. 

To  the  best  bride-bed  will  we: 

Which  by  us  shall  blessed  be; 

And  the  issue  there  create 

Ever  shall  be  fortunate. 

So  shall  all  the  couples  three 

Ever  true  in  loving  be: 

And  the  blots  of  nature's  hand 

Shall  not  in  their  issue  stand: 

Never  mole,  hare-lip,  nor  scar. 

Nor  mark  prodigious,  such  as  are 

Despised  in  nativity. 

Shall  upon  their  children  be. 

With  this  field-dew  consecrate. 

Every  fairy  take  his  gait, 


I 


SHAKESPEARE  I3203 

And  each  several  chamber  bless. 
Through  this  palace  with  sweet  peace; 
Ever  shall  it  safely  rest, 
And  .the  owner  of  it  blest. 
Trip  away;  make  no  stay: 
Meet  me  all  by  break  of  day. 


WHERE   IS   FANCY  BRED 
From  the  <  Merchant  of  Venice  > 

A  Song  \the  whilst  Bassanio  comments  on  the  caskets  to  himself'\ 


T 


<ELL  me,  where  is  fancy  bred, — 

Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head? 
How  begot,  how  nourished  ? 
Reply,  reply. 
It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes, 
With  gazing  fed;   and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies. 

Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell; 
I'll  begin  it, —  Ding,  dong,  bell. 
All —  Ding,  dong,  bell. 


A 


UNDER  THE   GREENWOOD   TREE 
From  <As  You  Like  It> 

MIENS —       Under  the  greenwood  tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me. 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 
Here  shall  we  see  no  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

All  together  —  Who  doth  ambition  shun, 

And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun. 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets,- 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 
Here  shall  he  see  no  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


13204  SHAKESPEARE 

Jaques  —  I'll  give  you  a  verse  to  this  note,  that  I  made  yesterday 
in  despite  of  my  invention. 
Amiens  —  And  I'll  sing  it. 
/agues  —  Thus  it  goes:  — 

If  it  do  come  to  pass, 
That  any  man  turn  ass, 
Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease, 
A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame: 
Here  shall  he  see  gross  fools  as  he, 
An  if  he  will  come  to  me. 

Amiens  —  What's  that  ducdame? 

/agues — 'Tis  a  Greek  invocation  to  call  fools  into  a  circle.     I'll  go 
sleep  if  I  can;  if  I  cannot,  I'll  rail  against  all  the  first-born  of  Egypt. 


BLOW,  BLOW,  THOU   WINTER  WIND 
From  <As  You  Like  It> 


B 


,LOw,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen. 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh,  ho!    sing,  heigh,  ho!    unto  the  green  holly. 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly. 
Then,  heigh,  ho!    the  holly! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky,. 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp. 
Thy  sting  is  not  so   sharp 
As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh,  ho!    sing,  heigh,  ho!    unto  the  green  holly. 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly. 
Then,  heigh,  ho!    the  holly! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 


SHAKESPEARE  13205 

LOVE   IN   SPRINGTIME 
From  <As  You  Like  It> 

IT  WAS  a  lover  and  his  lass, 
With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
That  o'er  the  green  cornfield  did  pass 

In  the  springtime,  the  only  pretty  ring  time. 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding: 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye, 
With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 
In  the  springtime,  the  only  pretty  ring  time. 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding: 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

This  carol  they  began  that  hour. 
With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

How  that  our  life  was  but  a  flower. 
In  the  springtime,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding: 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

And  therefore  take  the  present  time, 
.    With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 
In  the  springtime,  the  only  pretty  ring  time. 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding; 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 


ONE  IN  TEN 
From  <  All's  Well  That  Ends  Well> 

WAS  this  fair  face,  quoth  she,  the  cause 
Why  the  Grecians  sacked  Troy  ? 
Fond  done,  done  fond,  good  sooth  it  was: 
Was  this  King  Priam's  joy  ? 
With  that  she  sighed  as  she  stood, 

And  gave  this  sentence  then: 
Among  nine  bad  if  one  be  good. 
There's  yet  one  good  in  ten. 


13206  SHAKESPEARE 


o 


SWEET   AND   TWENTY 
From  <Twelftk  Night  > 

MISTRESS  mine  I  where  are  you  roaming  ? 

Oh,  stay,  for  here  your  true  love's  coming, 
That  can  sing  both  high  and  low. 
Trip  no  farther,  pretty  sweeting: 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting, 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 
What  is  love?  'tis  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure: 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, — 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 


LOVE'S   LAMENT 
From  <  Twelfth  Night  > 

COME  away,  come  away,  death, 
And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid; 
Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath ; 

I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

Oh,  prepare  it: 
My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true 
Did  share  it. 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet. 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown: 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save. 

Lay  me,  oh,  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 


w 


SHAKESPEARE  T3207 

THE   RAIN   IT   RAINETH 
From  <  Twelfth  Night  > 

Clown  sings,  to  pipe  and  tabor 

HEN  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy. 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy. 

For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 


But  when  I  came  to  man's  estate, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

'Gainst  knaves  and  thieves  men  shut  their  gate. 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came,  alas!  to  wive. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

By  swaggering  could  I  never  thrive. 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  unto  my  bed. 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

With  toss-pots  still  I  had  drunken  head, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

A  great  while  ago  the  world  begun. 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

But  that's  all  one,  our  play  is  done, 

And  we'll  strive  to  please  you  every  day. 


WHEN   DAFFODILS    BEGIN   TO   PEER 
From  the  <  Winter's  Tale> 

Enter  Autolycus,  singing 

HEN  daffodils  begin  to  peer, — 

With,  heigh!   the  doxy  over  the  dale, — 
Why,  then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year; 

For  the  red  blood  reigns  in  the  winter's  pale. 


w 


The  white  sheet  bleaching  on  the  hedge, — 

With,  heigh!   the  sweet  birds,  oh,  how  they  sing!  — 

Doth  set  my  prigging  tooth  on  edge; 

For  a  quart  of  ale  is  a  dish  for  a  king. 


13208  SHAKESPEARE 

The  lark,  that  tirra-lirra  chants. 

With  heigh !   with  heigh !   the  thrush  and  the  jay. 
Are  summer  songs  for  me  and  my  aunts, 

While  we  lie  tumbling  in  the  hay. 


WHAT  MAIDS   LACK 
From  the  <  Winter's  Tale> 


c 


Enter  Autolycus,  singing 

AWN,  as  white  as  driven  snow; 
Cyprus,  black  as  e'er  was  crow; 
Gloves,  as  sweet  as  damask  roses; 
Masks  for  faces,  and  for  noses; 
Bugle-bracelet,  necklace  amber, 
Perfume  for  a  lady's  chamber; 
Golden  quoifs,  and  stomachers, 
For  my  lads  to  give  their  dears; 
Pins  and  poking-sticks  of  steel. 
What  maids  lack  from  head  to  heel: 
Come,  buy  of  me,  come ;  come  buy,  come  buy. 
Buy,  lads,  or  else  your  lasses  cry: 
Come,  buy. 
Will  you  buy  any  tape, 
Or  lace  for  your  cape. 
My  dainty  duck,  my  dear-a  ? 
Any  silk,  any  thread. 
Any  toys  for  your  head. 
Of  the  new'st,  and  fin'st,  fin'st  wear-a  ? 
Come  to  the  peddler; 
Money's  a  meddler. 
That  doth  utter  all  men's  ware-a. 


SWEET  MUSIC 
From  <King  Henry  VIII.> 

ORPHEUS  with  his  lute  made  trees. 
And  the  mountain-tops,  that  freeze,  l| 

Bow  themselves,  when  he  did  sing: 
To  his  music,  plants  and  flowers 
Ever  sprung;  as  sun  and  showers 
There  had  made  a  lasting  spring. 


SHAKESPEARE  13209 

Everything  that  heard  him  play  — 
Even  the  billows  of  the  sea  — 

Hung  their  heads,  and  then  lay  by. 
In  sweet  music  is  such  art, 
Killing  care  and  grief  of  heart 

Fall  asleep,  or,  hearing.,  die. 


D 


DOUBT   NOT 
From  <  Hamlet  > 

OUBT  thou  the  stars  are  fire, 

Doubt  that  the  sun  doth  move; 

Doubt  truth  to  be  a  liar. 
But  never  doubt  I  love. 


o 


DEAD  AND   GONE 
From  <  Hamlet  > 

Enter  Horatio,  ivith  Ophelia  distracted 
PHELIA  — 

Where  is  the  beauteous  majesty  of  Denmark  ? 
Queen  —  How  now,  Ophelia? 


Ophelia  \singing\  —  How  should  I  your  true  love  know 

From  another  one  ? — 

By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff, 

And  his  sandal  shoon. 

Queen —  Alas,  sweet  lady!  what  imports  this  song? 

Ophelia  —        Say  you  ?  nay,  pray  you,  mark. 

[Singing]  —  He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady. 
He  is  dead  and  gone; 
At  his  head  a  green  grass  turf, 
At  his  heels  a  stone. 
Oh,  ho! 
Queen —  Nay,  but,  Ophelia  — 

Ophelia —  Pray  you,  mark; 

[Singing]  —  White  his  shroud  as  the  mountain  snow  — 

Enter  King 

Queen —  Alas!  look  here,  my  lord. 


hi 


13210 


SHAKESPEARE 


Ophelia —  Larded  with  sweet  flowers; 

"Which  bewept  to  the  grave  did  go. 
With  true-love  showers. 


o 


OPHELIA'S   LAMENT 

From   <  Hamlet  > 
PHELIA  \_sings\  — 

They  bore  him  bare-faced  on  their  bier; 
Hey,  non  nontiy,  nonny,  hey  nonny: 
And  in  his  grave  rained  many  a  tear;  — 


Fare  you  well,  my  dove ! 

Laertes  —  Hadst  thou  thy  wits,  and  didst  persuade  revenge, 
It  could  not  move  thus. 

Ophelia  —  You  must  sing,  Dmvn  a-down,  an  you  call  him  a-down-a. 
Oh,  how  the  wheel  becomes  it!  It  is  the  false  steward,  that  stole  his 
master's  daughter. 

Laertes  —  This  nothing's  more  than  matter. 

Ophelia  —  There's  rosemary,  that's  for  remembrance;  pray  you, 
love,  remember:  and  there  is  pansies;  that's  for  thoughts. 

Laertes  —  A  document  in  madness;  thoughts  and  remembrance 
fitted. 

Ophelia  —  There's  fennel  for  you,  and  columbines;  —  there's  rue 
for  you ;  and  here's  some  for  me ;  we  may  call  it  herb  of  grace  o' 
Sundays:  you  may  wear  your  rue  with  a  difference. —  There's  a 
daisy:  I  would  give  you  some  violets;  but  they  withered  all  when 
my  father  died. —  They  say  he  made  a  good  end. 

\^Sings^^  —  For  bonny  sweet  Robin  is  all  my  joy. 

Laertes  —  Thought  and  affliction,  passion,  hell  itself. 
She  turns  to  favor  and  to  prettiness. 

Ophelia  \sings\  —  And  will  he  not  come  again  ? 
And  will  he  not  come  again  ? 
No,  no,  he  is  dead; 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
He  never  will  come  again. 
His  beard  was  white  as  snow. 
All  flaxen  was  his  poll ; 

He  is  gone,  he  is  gone, 
And  we  cast  away  moan: 
God  ha'  mercy  on  his  soul! 
And  of  all  Christian  souls!     I  pray  God. —  God  be  wi'  j'-ou! 

\^Exit  Ophelia,  dancing  distractedly. 


F 


SHAKESPEARE  132H 

IN   THE   CHURCH-YARD 
From  <  Hamlet  > 

Scene:    A  Church-Yard.     Enter  two  Clowns  with  Spades,  etc. 

iRST    Clown  —  Is   she    to    be    buried    in    Christian   burial,  that 
willfully  seeks  her  own  salvation  ? 

Second  Clown  —  I  tell  thee,  she  is;  and  therefore  make 
her  grave  straight:  the  crowner  hath  set  on  her,  and  finds  it 
Christian  burial. 

First  Clown  —  How  can  that  be,  unless  she  drowned  herself  in 
her  own  defense  ? 

Second  Clown  —  Why,  'tis  found  so. 

First  Cloivn  —  It  must  be  se  offendendo;  it  cannot  be  else. 
For  here  lies  the  point:  if  I  drown  myself  wittingly,  it  argues  an 
act,  and  an  act  hath  three  branches, —  it  is,  to  act,  to  do,  and  to 
perform:  argal,  she  drowned  herself  wittingly. 

Second  Clown  —  Nay,  but  hear  you,  goodman  delver. 

First  Clown  —  Give  me  leave.  Here  lies  the  water;  good, 
here  stands  the  man;  good:  if  the  man  go  to  this  water,  and 
drown  himself,  it  is,  will  he  nill  he,  he  goes,  mark  you  that;  but 
if  the  water  come  to  him,  and  drown  him,  he  drowns  not  him- 
self: argal,  he  that  is  not  guilty  of  his  own  death  shortens  not 
his  own  life. 

Second  Clown  —  But  is  this  law  ? 

First  Clown  —  Ay,  marry,  is  't ;   crowner's-quest  law. 

Second  Clozvn  —  Will  you  ha'  the  truth  on  't  ?  If  this  had 
not  been  a  gentlewoman,  she  should  have  been  buried  out  of 
Christian  burial. 

First  Clown  —  Why,  there  thou  say'st;  and  the  more  pity,  that 
great  folk  shall  have  countenance  in  this  world  to  drown  or  hang 
themselves,  more  than  their  even  Christian.  Come,  my  spade. 
There  is  no  ancient  gentlemen  but  gardeners,  ditchers,  and  grave- 
makers;  they  hold  up  Adam's  profession. 

Second  Clozvn  —  Was  he  a  gentleman  ? 

First  Clozvn  —  He  was  the  first  that  ever  bore  arms. 

Second  Clown  —  Why,  he  had  none. 

First  Clozvn  —  What,  art  a  heathen  ?  How  dost  thou  under- 
stand the  Scripture?  The  Scripture  says,  Adam  digged:  could  he 
dig  without  arms?  I'll  put  another  question  to  thee:  if  thou 
answerest   me  not  to  the  purpose,  confess  thyself. 


13212  SHAKESPEARE 

Second  Clown  —  Go  to. 

First  Clown  —  What  is  he  that  builds  stronger  than  either  the 
mason,  the  shipwright,  or  the  carpenter  ? 

Second  Clozvn  —  The  gallows-maker;  for  that  frame  outlives  a 
thousand  tenants. 

First  Clown  —  I  like  thy  wit  well,  in  good  faith:  the  gallows 
does  well;  but  how  does  it  well?  it  does  well  to  those  that  do 
ill:  now,  thou  dost  ill  to  say  the  gallows  is  built  stronger  than 
the  church;  argal,  the  gallows  may  do  well  to  thee.  To  't  again; 
come. 

Second  Clown  —  Who  builds  stronger  than  a  mason,  a  ship- 
wright, or  a  carpenter  ? 

First  Clown  —  Ay,  tell  me  that,  and  unyoke. 

Second  Clown  —  Marry,  now  I  can  tell. 

First  Clown  —  To  't. 

Second  Clown  —  'Mass,  I  cannot  tell. 

Enter  Hamlet  and  Horatio,  at  a  distance 

First  Clown  —  Cudgel  thy  brains  no  more  about  it,  for  your 
dull  ass  will  not  mend  his  pace  with  beating;  and  when  you  are 
asked  this  question  next,  say,  a  grave-maker:  the  houses  that  he 
makes  last  till  doomsday.  Go,  get  thee  to  yon';  fetch  me  a  stoop 
of  liquor.  YExit  Second  Clown. 

First  Clown  {digs,  and  sings] 

In  youth,  when  I  did  love,  did  love, 

Methought  it  was  very  sweet 
To  contract.     Oh !  the  time,  for,  ah !  my  behove, 
Oh !  methought,  there  was  nothing  meet. 

Hamlet — Has  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  his  business,  that  he 
sings  at  grave-making  ? 

Horatio  —  Custom  hath  made  it  in  him  a  property  of  easiness. 

Hamlet — 'Tis  e'en  so:  the  hand  of  little  employment  hath  the 
daintier  sense. 

First  Clown 

But  age,  with  his  stealing  steps. 

Hath  clawed  me  in  his  clutch. 
And  hath  shipped  me  intill  the  land, 

As  if  I  had  never  been  such. 

■  [  Throws  up  a  skull.  ] 


SHAKESPEARE  I3213 

Hamlet  — Thdit  skull  had  a  tongue  in  it,  and  could  sing  once: 
how  the  knave  jowls  it  to  the  ground,  as  if  it  were  Cain's  jaw- 
bone, that  did  the  first  murder!  This  might  be  the  pate  of  a 
politician,  which  this  ass  now  o'er-reaches, —  one  that  would  cir- 
cumvent God, —  might  it  not? 

Horatio  —  It  might,  my  lord. 

Havilct  —  Or  of  a  courtier,  which  could  say,  « Good-morrow, 
sweet  lord!  How  dost  thou,  good  lord  ? »  This  might  be  my 
lord  such-a-one,  that  praised  my  lord  such-a-one's  horse,  when 
he  meant  to  beg  it,  might  it  not? 

Horatio — Ay,  my  lord. 

Hamlet  — Why,  e'en  so,  and  now  my  lady  Worm's;  chapless, 
and  knocked  about  the  mazzard  with  a  sexton's  spade.  Here's 
fine  revolution,  an  we  had  the  trick  to  see  't.  Did  these  bones 
cost  no  more  the  breeding,  but  to  play  at  loggats  with  them  ? 
mine  ache  to  think  on   't. 

First  Clown  [singsA^ 

A  pickaxe,  and  a  spade,  a  spade, 

For  —  and  a  shrouding  sheet: 
Oh,  a  pit  of  clay  for  to  be  made 

For  such  a  guest  is  meet. 

{Throzvs  lip  another  skull.} 

Hamlet  —  There's  another:  why  may  not  that  be  the  skull  of 
a  lawyer  ?  Where  be  his  quiddits  now,  his  quillets,  his  cases,  his 
tenures,  and  his  tricks  ?  why  does  he  suffer  this  rude  knave  now 
to  knock  him  about  the  sconce  with  a  dirty  shovel,  and  will  not 
tell  him  of  his  action  of  battery?  Humph!  This  fellow  might 
be  in  's  time  a  great  buyer  of  land,  with  his  statutes,  his  recog- 
nizances, his  fines,  his  double  vouchers,  his  recoveries:  is  this 
the  fine  of  his  fines,  and  the  recovery  of  his  recoveries,  to  have 
his  fine  pate  full  of  fine  dirt  ?  will  his  vouchers  vouch  him  no 
more  of  his  purchases,  and  double  ones  too,  than  the  length  and 
breadth  of  a  pair  of  indentures  ?  The  very  conveyances  of  his 
lands  will  hardly  lie  in  this  box;  and  must  the  inheritor  himself 
have  no  more  ?  ha  ? 

Horatio — Not  a  jot  more,  my  lord. 

Hamlet  —  Is  not  parchment  made  of  sheepskins? 

Horatio — Ay,  my  lord,  and  of  calfskins  too. 

Hamlet  —  They  are  sheep,  and  calves,  which  seek  out  assurance 
in  that.     I  will  speak  to  this  fellow. —  Whose  grave's  this,  sir? 


13214  SHAKESPEARE 

First  Clown  —  Mine,  sir. 

\Sings^^  —  Oh,  a  pit  of  clay  for  to  be  made 
For  such  a  guest  is  meet. 

Hamlet  —  I  think  it  be  thine  indeed ;   for  thou  liest  in  't. 

First  Clown  —  You  lie  out  on  't,  sir,  and  therefore  it  is  not 
yours;  for  my  part,  I  do  not  lie  in  't,  and  yet  it  is  mine. 

Hamlet  —  Thou  dost  lie  in  't,  to  be  in  't  and  say  it  is  thine: 
'tis  for  the  dead,  not  for  the  quick;  therefore,  thou  liest. 

First  Clown  —  'Tis  a  quick  lie,  sir:  'twill  away  again,  from 
me  to  you. 

Hamlet  —  What  man  dost  thou  dig  it  for? 

First  Clown  —  For  no  man,  sir. 

Hamlet  —  What  woman,  then? 

First  Clown  —  For  none,  neither. 

Hamlet  —  Who  is  to  be  buried  in  't  ? 

First  Cloiint  —  One  that  was  a  woman,  sir;  but  rest  her  soul, 
she's  dead. 

Hamlet  —  How  absolute  the  knave  is!  we  must  speak  by  the 
card,  or  equivocation  will  undo  us.  By  the  Lord!  Horatio,  these 
three  years  I  have  taken  note  of  it:  the  age  is  grown  so  picked, 
that  the  toe  of  the  peasant  comes  so  near  the  heel  of  the  courtier, 
he  galls  his  kibe. —  How  long  hast  thou  been  a  grave-maker  ? 

First  Clown  —  Of  all  the  days  i'  the  year,  I  came  to  't  that  day 
that  our  last  king  Hamlet  overcame  Fortinbras. 

Hamlet — How  long  is  that  since? 

First  Clown  —  Cannot  you  tell  that  ?  every  fool  can  tell  that. 
It  was  the  very  day  that  young  Hamlet  was  born:  he  that  is 
mad,  and  sent  into  England. 

Hamlet — Ay,  marry:   why  was  he  sent  into  England? 

First  Clotvn  —  Why,  because  he  was  mad:  he  shall  recover  his 
wits  there;    or  if  he  do  not,  'tis  no  great  matter  there. 

Hamlet  —  Why  ? 

First  Clown  —  'Twill  not  be  seen  in  him  there:  there,  the 
men  are  as  mad  as  he. 

Hajnlet — How  came  he  mad? 

First  Clown  —  Very  strangely,  they  say. 

Hamlet  —  How  strangely  ? 

First  Clown  —  Faith,  e'en  with  losing  his  wits. 

Hamlet  —  Upon  what  ground  ? 

First  Clozvn  —  Why,  here  in  Denmark.  I  have  been  sexton 
here,  man  and  boy,  thirty  years. 


I 


SHAKESPEARE  1 32  1 5 

Hamlet  —  How  long  will  a  man  lie  i'  the  earth  ere  he  rot? 

First  Clown  —  Faith,  if  he  be  not  rotten  before  he  die  (as 
we  have  many  pocky  corses  nowadays,  that  will  scarce  hold  the 
laying  in),  he  will  last  you  some  eight  year,  or  nine  year:  a  tan- 
ner will  last  you  nine  year. 

Hamlet  —  Why  he  more  than  another  ? 

First  Clown  —  Why,  sir,  his  hide  is  so  tanned  with  his  trade 
that  he  will  keep  out  water  a  great  while;  and  your  water  is  a 
sore  decayer  of  your  whoreson  dead  body.  Here's  a  skull  now: 
this  skull  hath  lain  i'  the  earth  three-and-twenty  years. 

Hamlet  —  Whose  was  it? 

First  Clown  —  A  whoreson  mad  fellow's  it  was:  whose  do  you 
think  it  was  ? 

Hamlet  —  Nay,  I  know  not. 

First  Clown  —  A  pestilence  on  him  for  a  mad  rogue !  'a 
poured  a  flagon  of  Rhenish  on  my  head  once.  This  same  skull, 
sir,  tliis  same  skull,  sir,  was  Yorick's  skull,  the  king's  jester. 

Hamlet — This?  \Takes  the  skull. 

First  Clown —  E'en  that. 

Hamlet  —  Let  me  see.  Alas,  poor  Yorick!  —  I  knew  him, 
Horatio:  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of  most  excellent  fancy, —  he 
hath  borne  me  on  his  back  a  thousand  times:  and  now,  how 
abhorred  in  my  imagination  it  is!  my  gorge  rises  at  it.  Here 
hung  those  lips,  that  I  have  kissed  I  know  not  how  oft.  Where 
be  your  gibes  now  ?  your  gambols  ?  your  songs  ?  your  flashes  of 
merriment,  that  were  wont  to  set  the  table  on  a  roar  ?  Not  one 
now,  to  mock  your  own  grinning  ?  quite  chapfallen.  Now,  get 
you  to  my  lady's  chamber  and  tell  her,  let  her  paint  an  inch 
thick,  to  this  favor  she  must  come;  make  her  laugh  at  that. — 
Pr'ythee,  Horatio,  tell  me  one  thing. 

Horatio  —  What's  that,  my  lord? 

Hamlet  —  Dost  thou  think  Alexander  looked  o'  this  fashion  i' 
the  earth  ? 

Horatio  —  E'en  so. 

Hamlet  —  And  smelt  so?  pah!  \_Puts  down  the  skull. 

Horatio — E'en  so,  my  lord. 

Hamlet  —  To  what  base  uses  we  may  return,  Horatio.  Why 
may  not  imagination  trace  the  noble  dust  of  Alexander,  till  he 
find  it  stopping  a  bung-hole  ? 

Horatio  —  'Twere  to  consider  too  curiously,  to  consider  so. 

Hamlet  —  No,  faith,  not  a  jot:  but  to  follow  him  thither  with 
modesty  enough,  and   likelihood    to   lead    it;    as    thus:   Alexander 


1 32 1 6  SHAKESPEARE 

died,  Alexander  was  buried,  Alexander  returned  into  dust;  the 
dust  is  earth ;  of  earth  we  make  loam ;  and  why  of  that  loam, 
whereto  he  was  converted,  might  they  not  stop  a  beer-barrel  ? 

Imperial  Caesar  dead,  and  turned  to  clay, 

Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away: 

Oh!  that  that  earth,  which  kept  the  world  in  awe, 

Should  patch  a  wall  t'  expel  the  winter's  flaw! 


A 


lAGO'S  SOLDIER-SONGS 
From  <  Othello  > 

ND  let  me  the  canakin  clink,  clink; 
And  let  me  the  canakin  clink: 
A  soldier's  a  man; 
A  life's  but  a  span: 
Why  then  let  a  soldier  drink. 


King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peer, 

His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crown; 
He  held  them  sixpence  all  too  dear, 

With  that  he  called  the  tailor  —  lown. 
He  was  a  wight  of  high  renown, 

And  thou  art  but  of  low  degree: 
'Tis  pride  that  pulls  the  country  down. 

Then  take  thine  auld  cloak  about  thee. 


D 


DESDEMONA'S   LAST  SONG 

From  <  Othello  > 
ESDEMONA    [singWg]  — 

A  poor  soul  sat  sighing  by  a  sycamore  tree, 

Sing  all  a  green  willow; 
Her  hand  on  her  bosom,  her  head  on  her  knee, — 
Sing  willow,  willow,  willow : 
The  fresh  streams  ran  by  her  and  murmured  her  moans; 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow; 
Her  salt  tears  fell  from  her,  and  softened  the  stones. — 

Lay  by  these. — 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow. — 


SHAKESPEARE  1321? 

Pr'ythee,  hie  thee;  he'll  come  anon. — 

Sing  all  a  green  willow  must  be  my  garland. 
Let  nobody  blame  him,  his  scorn  I  approve,— 

Nay,  that's  not  next.  — Hark!  who  is  it  that  knocks? 
Emilia  —  It  is  the  wind. 
Desdemona  — 

I  called  my  love  false  love;  but  what  said  he  then? 
Sing  willow,  willow,  willow: 
If  I  court  no  women,  you'll  couch  with  no  men. 


HARK!   HARK!   THE   LARK 
From  <Cymbeline> 

Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 
And  Phoebus  'gins  arise. 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 
On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 
To  ope  their  golden  eyes: 
With  everything  that  pretty  is, 
My  lady  sweet,  arise; 
Arise,  arise! 


FEAR  NO   MORE 
•From  <  Cymbeline  * 

FEAR  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done. 

Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages: 
Golden  lads  and  lasses  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe,  and  eat; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak: 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 


J  32 1 8  .  SHAKESPEARE 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash, 
Nor  th'  all-dreaded  thunder-stone; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash; 

Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan: 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

No  exorciser  harm  thee! 
Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee! 
Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee! 
Nothing  ill  come  near  thee! 
Quiet  consummation  have; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave! 


TIME'S   GLORY 
From  the  <Rape  of  Lucrece> 

Time's  glory  is  to  calm  contending  kings, 
To  unmask  falsehood,  and  bring  truth  to  light; 
To  stamp  the  seal  of  time  in  aged  things. 
To  wake  the  morn,  and  sentinel  the  night. 
To  wrong  the  wronger  till  he  render  right; 
To  ruinate  proud  buildings  with  thy  hours. 
And  smear  with  dust  their  glittering  golden  towers; 

To  fill  with  worm-holes  stately  monuments, 
To  feed  oblivion  with  decay  of  things. 

To  blot  old  books,  and  alter  their  contents. 

To  pluck  the  quills  from  ancient  ravens'  wings. 
To  dry  the  old  oak's  sap,  and  cherish  springs; 

To  spoil  antiquities  of  hammered  steel. 

And  turn  the  giddy  round  of  Fortune's  wheel. 

To  show  the  beldame  daughters  of  her  daughter, 
To  make  the  child  a  man,  the  man  a  child, 

To  slay  the  tiger  that  doth  live  by  slaughter, 
To  tame  the  unicorn  and  lion  wild; 
To  mock  the  subtle,  in  themselves  beguiled; 

To  cheer  the  plowman  with  increaseful  crops. 

And  waste  huge  stones  with  little  water-drops. 


SHAKESPEARE  I3219 


SONNETS 


WEARY  with  toil  I  haste  me  to  my  bed, — 
The  dear  repose  for  limbs  with  travel  tired; 
But  then  begins  a  journey  in  my  head, 

To  work  my  mind  when  body's  work's  expired. 
For  then  my  thoughts  (from  far  where  I  abide) 

Intend  a  zealous  pilgrimage  to  thee. 
And  keep  my  drooping  eyelids  open  wide, 

Looking  on  darkness  which  the  blind  do  see; 
Save  that  my  soul's  imaginary  sight 

Presents  thy  shadow  to  my  sightless  view. 
Which,  like  a  jewel  hung  in  ghastly  night, 

Makes  black  night  beauteous,  and  her  old  face  new. 
Lo!  thus  by  day  my  limbs,  by  night  my  mind, 
For  thee,  and  for  myself,  no  quiet  find. 


Let  me  confess  that  we  two  must  be  twain, 

Although  our  undivided  loves  are  one ; 
So  shall  those  blots  that  do  with  me  remain, 

Without  thy  help  by  me  be  borne  alone. 
In  our  two  loves  there  is  but  one  respect. 

Though  in  our  lives  a  separable  spite, 
Which  though  it  alter  not  love's  sole  effect. 

Yet  doth  it  steal  sweet  hours  from  love's  delight. 
I  may  not  evermore  acknowledge  thee. 

Lest  my  bewailed  guilt  should  do  thee  shame: 
Nor  thou  with  public  kindness  honor  me,    . 

Unless  thou  take  that  honor  from  thy  name; 
But  do  not  so:  I  love  thee  in  such  sort. 
As,  thou  being  mine,  mine  is  thy  good  report. 


When  most  I  wink,  then  do  mine  eyes  best  see. 

For  all  the  day  they  view  things  unrespected; 
But  when  I  sleep,  in  dreams  they  look  on  thee. 

And  darkly  bright  are  bright  in  dark  directed. 
Then  thou,  whose  shadow  shadows  doth  make  bright, 

How  would  thy  shadow's  form,  form  happy  show 
To  the  clear  day  with  thy  much  clearer  light, 

When  to  unseeing  eyes  thy  shade  shines  so  ? 
How  would,  I  say,  mine  eyes  be  blessed  made 

By  looking  on  thee  in  the  living  day. 


13220 


SHAKESPEARE 

When  in  dead  night  thy  fair  imperfect  shade 

Through  heavy  sleep  on  sightless  eyes  doth  stay  ? 
All  days  are  nights  to  see,  till  I  see  thee, 
And  nights  bright  days,  whei>  dreams  do  show  thee  me. 

How  heavy  do  I  journey  on  the  way, 

When  what  I  seek  (my  weary  travel's  end) 
Doth  teach  that  ease  and  that  repose  to  say, 

**  Thus  far  the  miles  are  measured  from  thy  friend!** 
The  beast  that  bears  me,  tired  with  my  woe. 

Plods  dully  on  to  bear  that  weight  in  me. 
As  if  by  some  instinct  the  wretch  did  know. 

His  rider  loved  not  speed  being  made  from  thee. 
The  bloody  spur  cannot  provoke  him  on 

That  sometimes  anger  thrusts  into  his  hide. 
Which  heavily  he  answers  with  a  groan. 

More  sharp  to  me  than  spurring  to  his  side; 
For  that  same  groan  doth  put  this  in  my  mind, — 
My  grief  lies  onward,  and  my  joy  behind. 

What  is  your  substance,  whereof  are  you  made, 

That  millions  of  strange  shadows  on  you  tend? 
Since  every  one  hath,  every  one,  one  shade, 

And  you,  but  one,  can  every  shadow  lend. 
Describe  Adonis,  and  t^e  counterfeit 

Is  poorly  imitated  after  you; 
On  Helen's  cheek  all  art  of  beauty  set. 

And  you  in  Grecian  tires  are  painted  new; 
Speak  of  the  spring,  and  foison  of  the  year. 

The  one  doth  shadow  of  your  beauty  show. 
The  other  as  your  bounty  doth  appear: 

And  you  in  every  blessed  shape  we  know. 
In  all  external  grace  you  have  some  part. 
But  you  like  none,  none  you,  for  constant  heart. 

Oh,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem, 

By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 

For  that  sweet  odor  which  doth  in  it  live. 
The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 

As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses; 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 

When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses: 


SHAKESPEARE  13221 

But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show, 

They  live  unwooed,  and  unrespected  fade; 

Die  to  themselves.     Sweet  roses  do  not  so; 

Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odors  made: 

And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth, — 

When  that  shall  fade,  my  verse  distils  your  truth. 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 

Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme; 
But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these  contents 

Than  unswept  stone,  besmeared  with  sluttish  time. 
When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 

And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry, —  • 
Nor  Mars  his  sword,  nor  war's  quick  fire  shall  bum 

The  living  record  of  your  memory. 

'Gainst  death  and  all-oblivious  enmity 
Shall  you  pace  forth;  your  praise  shall  still  find  room 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity. 
That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 
So,  till  the  Judgment  that  yourself  arise, 
You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers'  eyes. 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore, 

So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before, 

In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 
Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light, 

Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crowned, 
Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight. 

And  time  that  gave  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth. 

And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow; 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  r^^ture's  truth. 

And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow: 
And  yet  to  times  in  hope  my  verse  shall  stand, 
Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless  sea, 

But  sad  mortality  o'ersways  their  power, 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea. 

Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower  ? 
Oh!  how  shall  summer's  honey-breath  hold  out 

Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days, 


1^232  SHAKESPEARE 

When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout, 

Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  Time  decays? 

Oh,  fearful  meditation!  where,  alack. 

Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from  Time's  chest  lie  hid? 

Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot  back  ? 
Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forbid? 

Oh,  none!  unless  this  miracle  have  might, 

That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine  bright. 


Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry; — 

As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  bom, 
And  needy  nothing  trimmed  in  jollity, 

And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn. 
And  gilded  honor  shamefully  misplaced. 

And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced. 

And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 

And  folly  (doctor-like)  controlling  skill. 
And  simple  truth  miscalled  simplicity, 

And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill: 
Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be  gone. 
Save  that  to  die  I  leave  my  love  alone. 

Or  I  shall  live  your  epitaph  to  make, 

Or  you  survive  when  I  in  earth  am  rotten: 
From  hence  your  memory  death  cannot  take, 

Although  in  me  each  part  will  be  forgotten. 
Your  name  from  hence  immortal  life  shall  have, 

Though  I,  once  gone,  to  all  the  world  must  die: 
The  earth  can  yield  me  but  a  common  grave. 

When  you  entombed  in  men's  eyes  shall  lie. 
Your  monument  sh^ll  be  my  gentle  verse. 

Which  eyes  not  yet  created  shall  o'er-read; 
And  tongues  to  be  your  being  shall  rehearse. 

When  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead; 
You  still  shall  live  (such  virtue  hath  my  pen), 
Where  breath  most  breathes,  even  in  the  mouths  of  men. 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring. 

When  proud-pied  April,  dressed  in  all  his  trim. 

Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  everything. 

That  heavy  Saturn  laughed  and  leaped  with  him; 


SHAKESPEARE  13223- 

Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 

Of  different  flowers  in  odor  and  in  hue, 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 

Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they  grew. 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white, 

Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose: 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 

Drawn  after  you;  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seemed  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away, 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play. 

The  forward  violet  thus  did  I  chide :  —  [smells, 

Sweet   thief,   whence    didst   thou   steal   thy   sweet  that 
If  not  from  my  love's  breath  ?  the  purple  pride 

Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion  dwells, 
In  my  love's  veins  thou  hast  too  grossly  dyed. 

The  lily  I  condemned  for  thy  hand. 
And  buds  of  marjoram  had  stolen  thy  hair; 

The  roses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand. 
One  blushing  shame,  another  white  despair: 

A  third,  nor  red  nor  white,  had  stolen  of  both, 
And  to  this  robbery  had  annexed  thy  breath; 

But  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  growth, 
A  vengeful  canker  eat  him  up  to  death. 
More  flowers  I  noted,  yet  I  none  could  see 
But  sweet  or  color  it  had  stolen  from  thee. 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 

I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme. 

In  praise  of  ladies  dead,  and  lovely  knights; 
Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best, 

Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  expressed 

Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 

Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring; 
And  for  they  looked  but  with  divining  eyes, 

They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing: 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days. 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 

Of  the  wide  world,   dreaming  on  things  to  come. 


13224  SHAKESPEARE 

Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control, 

Supposed  as  forfeit  to  a  confined  doom. 
The  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse  endured, 

And  the  sad  augurs  mock  their  own  presage; 
Incertainties  now  crown  themselves  assured. 

And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  endless  age. 
Now,  with  the  drops  of  this  most  balmy  time 

My  love  looks  fresh,  and  death  to  me  subscribes,- 
Since,  spite  of  him,  I'll  live  in  this  poor  rhyme, 

While  he  insults  o'er  dull  and  speechless  tribes; 
And  thou  in  this  shalt  find  thy  monument. 
When  tyrants'  crests  and  tombs  of  brass  are  spent. 

Th'  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 

Is  lust  in  action :  and  till  action,  lust 
Is  perjured,  murderous,  bloody,  full  of  blame, 

Savage,  extreme,  rude,  cruel,  not  to  trust; 
Enjoyed  no  sooner  but  despised  straight; 

Past  reason  hunted,  and  no  sooner  had, 
Past  reason  hated,  as  a  swallowed  bait 

On  purpose  laid  to  make  the  taker  mad: 
Mad  in  pursuit,  and  in  possession  so; 

Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have,  extreme; 
A  bliss  in  proof  —  and  proved,  a  very  woe: 

Before,  a  joy  proposed;  behind,  a  dream. 
All  this  the  world  well  knows;  yet  none  knows  well 
To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell. 


SHAKESPEARE  13225 

SONGS  ATTRIBUTED  TO  SHAKESPEARE 

CRABBED   AGE   AND   YOUTH 
From  <The  Passionate  Pilgrim  > 

CRABBED  age  and  youth 
Cannot  live  together: 
Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 
Age  is  full  of  care ; 
Youth  like  summer  morn, 

Age  like  winter  weather; 
Youth  like  summer  brave, 

Age  like  winter  bare. 
Youth  is  full  of  sport, 
Age's  breath  is  short; 

Youth  is  nimble,  age  is  lame; 

Youth  is  hot  and  bold. 

Age  is  weak  and  cold; 
Youth  is  wild,  and  age  is  tame. 

Age,  I  do  abhor  thee. 

Youth,  I  do  adore  thee; 
Oh,  my  love,  my  love  is  young! 

Age,  I  do  defy  thee; 

O  sweet  shepherd!  hie  thee. 
For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 

BEAUTY 
From  <The  Passionate  Pilgrim  > 

BEAUTY  is  but  a  vain  and  doubtful  good: 
A  shining  gloss  that  fadeth  suddenly; 
A  flower  that  dies  when  first  it  'gins  to  bud; 
A  brittle  glass,  that's  broken  presently; 
A  doubtful  good,  a  gloss,  a  glass,  a  flower, 
Lost,  faded,  broken,  dead  within  an  hour. 

And  as  goods  lost  are  seld  or  never  found; 

As  faded  gloss  no  rubbing  will  refresh ; 
As  flowers  dead  lie  withered  on  the  ground. 

As  broken  glass  no  cement  can  redress: 
So  beauty  blemished  once,  for  ever  lost, 
In  spite  of  physic,  painting,  pain,  and  cost. 


r3226  SHAKESPEARE 


TH RENOS 
From  <The  Phoenix  and  Turtle* 


B 


EAUTY,  truth,  and  rarity, 
Grace  in  all  simplicity, 
Here  inclosed  in  cinders  lie. 


Death  is  now  the  Phoenix's  nest; 
And  the  turtle's  loyal  breast 
To  eternity  doth  rest. 

Leaving  no  posterity: 
*Twas  not  their  infirmity, 
It  was  married  chastity. 

Truth  may  seem,  but  cannot  be; 
Beauty  brag,  but  'tis  not  she: 
Truth  and  beauty  buried  be. 

To  this  urn  let  those  repair 

That  are  either  true  or  fair; 

For  these  dead  birds  sigh  a  prayer. 


SHAKESPEARE  13227 


SCENES  FROM  THE  COMEDIES  AND  HISTORIES 

DOGBERRY  CAPTAIN   OF  THE  WATCH 
From   <Much  Ado   About    Nothing  > 

Scene:  A  Street.     Enter  Dogberry  a?id  Verges,  with  the   Watch. 

DOGBERRY  —  Are  you  good  men  and  true? 
Verges — Yea,  or  else  it  were  pity  but  they  should  suffer 
salvation,  body  and  soul. 

Dogberry — Nay,  that  were  a  punishment  too  good  for  them, 
if  they  should  have  any  allegiance  in  them,  being  chosen  for  the 
prince's  watch. 

Verges  —  Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbor  Dogberry. 

Dogberry  —  First,  who  think  you  the  most  desartless  man  to 
be  constable  ? 

First  Watch — Hugh  Oatcake,  sir,  or  George  Seacoal;  for  they 
can  write  and  read. 

Dogberry  —  Come  hither,  neighbor  Seacoal.  God  hath  blessed 
you  with  a  good  name:  to  be  a  well-favored  man  is  the  gift  of 
fortune,  but  to  write  and  read  comes  by  nature. 

Second  Watch  —  Both  which,  master  constable, — 

Dogberry  —  You  have :  I  knew  it  would  be  your  answer. 
Well,  for  your  favor,  sir,  why,  give  God  thanks,  and  make  no 
boast  of  it,  and  for  your  writing  and  reading,  let  that  appear 
when  there  is  no  need  of  such  vanity.  You  arc  thought  here  to 
be  the  most  senseless  and  fit  man  for  the  constable  of  the  watch; 
therefore,  bear  you  the  lantern.  This  is  your  charge.  You  shall 
comprehend  all  vagrom  men:  you  are  to  bid  any  man  stand,  in 
the  prince's  name. 

Second  Watch — How,  if  'a  will  not  stand? 

Dogberry  —  Why  then,  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him  go; 
and  presently  call  the  rest  of  the  watch  together,  and  thank  God 
you  are  rid  of  a  knave. 

Verges — If  he  will  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden,  ho  is  none 
of  the  prince's  subjects. 


13228 


SHAKESPEARE 


Dogberry — True,  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none  but  the 
prince's  subjects. — You  shall  also  make  no  noise  in  the  streets; 
for,  for  the  watch  to  babble  and  talk  is  most  tolerable,  and  not 
to  be  endured. 

Second  Watch  —  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk:  we  know  what 
belongs  to  a  watch. 

Dogberry  —  Why,  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and  most  quiet 
watchman,  for  I  cannot  see  how  sleeping  should  offend;  only 
have  a  care  that  your  bills  be  not  stolen.  Well,  you  are  to  call 
at  all  the  ale-houses,  and  bid  those  that  are  drunk  get  them  to 
bed. 

Second  WatcJi  —  How  if  they  will  not  ? 

Dogberry — Why  then,  let  them  alone  till  they  are  sober;  if 
they  make  you  not  then  the  better  answer,  you  may  say,  they 
are  not  the  men  you  took  them  for. 

Second  Watch  —  Well,  sir. 

Dogberry  —  If  you  meet  a  thief,  you  may  suspect  him,  by 
virtue  of  your  office,  to  be  no  true  man;  and  for  such  kind  of 
men,  the  less  you  meddle  or  make  with  them,  why,  the  more  is 
for  your  honesty. 

Second  Watch — If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief,  shall  we  not 
lay  hands  on  him  ? 

Dogberry  —  Truly,  by  your  office  you  may;  but  I  think,  they 
that  touch  pitch  will  be  defiled.  The  most  peaceable  way  for 
you,  if  you  do  take  a  thief,  is,  to  let  him  show  himself  what  he 
is,  and  steal  out  of  your  company. 

Verges  —  You  have  been  always  called  a  merciful  man,  part- 
ner. 

Dogberry  —  Truly,  I  would  not  hang  a  dog  by  my  will;  much 
more  a  man  who  hath  any  honesty  in  him. 

Verges — If  you  hear  a  child  cry  in  the  night,  you  must  call 
to  the  nurse,  and  bid  her  still  it. 

Second  Watch — How,  if  the  nurse  be  asleep,  and  will  not 
hear  it  ? 

Dogberry  —  Why  then,  depart  in  peace,  and  let  the  child  wake 
her  with  crying;    for  the  ewe   that  will  not  hear  her  lamb  when 
it  baes,  will  never  answer  a  calf  when  he  bleats. 
Verges  —  'Tis  very  true. 

Dogberry  —  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge.  You,  constable, 
are  to  present  the  prince's  own  person:  if  you  meet  the  prince 
in  the  night,  you  may  stay  him. 

Verges  —  Nay,  by'r  lady,  that,  I  think,  'a  cannot. 


SHAKESPEARE  1 3229 

Dogberry —  Five  shillings  to  one  on't,  with  any  man  that 
knows  the  statutes,  he  tnay  stay  him:  marry,  not  without  the 
prince  be  willing;  for  indeed,  the  watch  ought  to  offend  no  man, 
and  it  is  an  offense  to  stay  a  man  against  his  will. 

Verges  —  By'r  lady,  I  think  it  be  so. 

Dogberry — Ha,  ha,  ha!  Well,  masters,  good-night:  an  there 
be  any  matter  of  weight  chances,  call  up  me.  Keep  your  fel- 
lows' counsels  and  your  own,  and  good-night.     Come,  neighbor. 

Second  Watch  —  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our  charge:  let  us  go 
sit  here  upon  the  church-bench  till  two,  and  then  all  to  bed. 

Dogberry  —  One  word  more,  honest  neighbors.  I  pray  you, 
watch  about  Signior  Leonato's  door;  for  the  wedding  being  there 
to-morrow,  there  is  a  great  coil  to-night.  Adieu;  be  vigilant,  I 
beseech  you.  {^Exeunt  Dogberry  and  Verges. 


s 


SHYLOCK  AND  ANTONIO 

From  <  The  Merchant  of  Venice  > 
HYLOCK — 

Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft, 
On  the  Rialto  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  moneys  and  my  usances: 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug; 
For  sufferance  is  a  badge  of  all  our  tribe. 
You  called  me  misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog. 
And  spit  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine. 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
Well  then,  it  now  appears,  you  need  my  help. 
Go  to,  then, —  you  come  to  me,  and  you  say, 
^'Shylock,  we  would  have  moneys:*'  you  say  so; 
You,  that  did  void  your  rheum  upon  my  beard, 
And  foot  me  as  you  spurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold :   moneys  is  your  suit. 
What  should  I  say  to  you  ?     Should  I  not  say, 
<<  Hath  a  dog  money  ?    Is  it  possible 
■     A  cur  can  lend  three  thousand  ducats?**  or 
Shall  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key, 
With  'bated  breath,   and  whispering  humbleness, 
Say  this  ?  — 

<*  Fair  sir,  you  spit  on  me  on  Wednesday  last; 
You  spurned  me  such  a  day;  another  time 


13230 


SHAKESPEARE 


You  called  me  dog:  and  for  these  courtesies 

I'll  lend  you  thus  much  moneys.** 
Antonio —    I  am  as  like  to  call  thee  so  again, 

To  spit  on  thee  again,  to  spurn  thee  too. 

If  thou  wilt  lend  this  money,  lend  it  not 

As  to  thy  friend;  for  when  did  friendship  take 

A  breed  for  barren  metal  of  his  friend  ? 

But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy; 

Who  if  he  break,  thou  may'st  with  better  face 

Exact  the  penalty. 
Shylock —  Why,  look  you,  how  you  storm! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love, 

Forget  the  shames  that  you  have  stained  me  with, 

Supply  your  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 

Of  usance  for  my  moneys, 

And  you'll  not  hear  me.     This  is  kind  I  offer. 


LAUNCELOT  AND   OLD   GOBBO 

From  <  The  Merchant  of  Venice  > 

Scene:     Venice.     A  Street.     Enter  Launcelot  Gobbo. 


LAUNCELOT  —  Certainly,  my  conscience  will  serve  me  to  run 
J  from  this  Jew,  my  master.  The  fiend  is  at  mine  elbow,  and 
tempts  me,  saying  to  me,  "  Gobbo,  Launcelot  Gobbo,  good 
Launcelot,  or  good  Gobbo,  or  good  Launcelot  Gobbo,  use  your 
legs,  take  the  start,  run  away.**  My  conscience  says,  "No:  take 
heed,  honest  Launcelot;  take  heed,  honest  Gobbo**  —  or  as  afore- 
said—  "honest  Launcelot  Gobbo:  do  not  run;  scorn  running  with 
thy  heels.**  Well,  the  most  contagious  fiend  bids  me  pack:  "Via!** 
says  the  fiend ;  "  away !  **  says  the  fiend :  "  'fore  the  heavens,  rouse 
up  a  brave  mind,**  says  the  fiend,  "and  run.**  Well,  my  con- 
science, hanging  about  the  neck  of  my  heart,  says  very  wisely  to 
me,  "My  honest  friend  Launcelot,  being  an  honest  man's  son,** 
—  or  rather  an  honest  woman's  son:  for  indeed  my  father  did 
something  smack,  something  grow  to,  he  had  a  kind  of  taste  — 
well,  my  conscience  says,  "Launcelot,  budge  not.**  "Budge,**  says 
the  fiend;  "Budge  not,**  says  my  conscience.  Conscience,  say  I, 
you  counsel  well;  fiend,  say  I,  you  counsel  well:  to  be  ruled  by 
my  conscience,  I  should  stay  with  the  Jew  my  master,  who  (God 
bless  the  mark!)   is  a  kind   of  devil;    and  to  run   away  from  the 


SHAKESPEARE  1 3231 

Jew,  I  should  be  ruled  by  the  fiend,  who,  saving  your  reverence, 
is  the  Devil  himself.  Certainly,  the  Jew  is  the  very  Devil  incar- 
nation; and  in  my  conscience,  my  conscience  is  but  a  kind  of 
hard  conscience  to  offer  to  counsel  me  to  stay  with  the  Jew. 
The  fiend  gives  the  more  friendly  counsel:  I  will  run,  fiend;  my 
heels  are  at  your  commandment ;  I  will  run. 

\^Goi7ig  out  in  haste. 

Enter  Old  Gobbo,  with  a  Basket 

Gobbo — Master,  young  man,  you,  I  pray  you,  which  is  the 
way  to  master  Jew's  ? 

Launcelot  \asidc\  —  O  heavens !  this  is  my  true-begotten  father, 
who,  being  more  than  sand-blind,  high-gravel  blind,  knows  me 
not;  —  I  will   try  confusions  with   him. 

Gobbo  —  Master,  young  gentleman,  I  pray  you,  which  is  the 
way  to  master  Jew's  ? 

Launcelot  —  Turn  up  on  your  right  hand  at  the  next  turning, 
but  at  the  next  turning  of  all,  on  your  left;  marry,  at  the  very 
next  turning,  turn  of  no  hand,  but  turn  down  indirectly  to  the 
Jew's  house. 

Gobbo  —  By  God's  sonties,  'twill  be  a  hard  way  to  hit.  Can 
you  tell  me  whether  one  Launcelot,  that  dwells  with  him,  dwell 
with  him  or  no  ? 

Launcelot  —  Talk  you  of  young  master  Launcelot.? — \^Asidc.'\ 
Mark  me  now;  now  will  I  raise  the  waters. — \To  him.'\  Talk  you 
of  young  master  Launcelot  ? 

Gobbo — No  master,  sir,  but  a  poor  man's  son:  his  father, 
though  I  say  it,  is  an  honest  exceeding  poor  man;  and  God  be 
thanked,  well   to   live. 

Launcelot  —  Well,  let  his  father  be  what  'a  will,  we  talk  of 
young  master  Launcelot. 

Gobbo  —  Your  worship's  friend,  and  Launcelot,  sir. 

Launcelot  —  But  I  pray  you,  ergo,  old  man,  ergo.,  I  beseech 
you,  talk  you  of  young  master  Latmcelot  ? 

Gobbo  —  Of  Launcelot,  an't  please  your  mastership. 

Launcelot  —  Ergo.,  master  Launcelot.  Talk  not  of  master 
Launcelot,  father:  for  the  young  gentleman  (according  to  fates 
and  destinies,  and  such  odd  sayings,  the  sisters  three,  and  such 
branches  of  learning)  is  indeed  deceased;  or  as  you  would  say, 
in  plain  terms,  gone  to  heaven. 

Gobbo  —  Marry,  God  forbid!  the  boy  was  the  very  staff  of  my 
age,  my  very  prop. 


13232  SHAKESPEARE 

Launcclot  \asidc^  —  Do  I  look  like  a  cudgel  or  a  hovel-post,  a 
staff  or  a  prop?  —  \To  him.\     Do  you  know  me,  father? 

Gobbo  —  Alack  the  day:  I  know  you  not,  young  gentleman. 
But  I  pray  you,  tell  me,  is  my  boy  (God  rest  his  soul!)  alive  or 
dead  ? 

Launcelot — Do  you  not  know  me,  father? 

Gobbo — Alack,  sir,  I  am  sand-blind:  I  know  you  not. 

Launcclot  —  Nay,  indeed,  if  you  had  your  eyes  you  might  fail 
of  the  knowing  me:  it  is  a  wise  father  that  knows  his  own  child. 
Well,  old  man,  I  will  tell  you  news  of  your  son.  \Kncels.\  Give 
me  your  blessing:  truth  will  come  to  light;  murder  cannot  be  hid 
long;  a  man's  son  may,  but  in  the  end  truth  will  out. 

Gobbo  —  Pray  you,  sir,  stand  up.  I  am  sure  you  are  not 
Launcelot,  my  boy. 

Launcelot  —  Pray  you,  let's  have  no  more  fooling  about  it,  but 
give  me  your  blessing;  I  am  Launcelot,  your  boy  that  was^  your 
son  that  is,  your  child  that  shall  be. 

Gobbo  —  I  cannot  think  you  are  my  son. 

Launcelot  —  I  know  not  what  I  shall  think  of  that;  but  I  am 
Launcelot  the  Jew's  man,  and  I  am  sure  Margery  your  wife  is 
my  mother. 

Gobbo  —  Her  name  is  Margery,  indeed:  I'll  be  sworn,  if  thou 
be  Launcelot,  thou  art  mine  own  flesh  and  blood.  Lord!  wor- 
shiped might  he  be!  what  a  beard  hast  thou  got:  thou  hast  got 
more  hair  on  thy  chin  than  Dobbin  my  fill-horse  has  on  his  tail. 

Launcelot  \rising\  —  It  should  seem,  then,  that  Dobbin's  tail 
grows  backward:  I  am  sure  he  had  more  hair  of  his  tail  than  I 
have  of  my  face  when  I  last  saw  him. 

Gobbo  —  Lord!  how  art  thou  changed!  How  dost  thou  and 
thy  master  agree  ?  I  have  brought  him  a  present.  How  agree 
you  now  ? 

Launcelot  —  Well,  well;  but  for  mine  own  part,  as  I  have  set 
up  my  rest  to  run  away,  so  I  will  not  rest  till  I  have  run  some 
ground.  My  master's  a  very  Jew:  give  him  a  present!  give  him 
a  halter:  I  am  famished  in  his  service;  you  may  tell  every  finger 
I  have  with  my  ribs.  Father,  I  am  glad  you  are  come :  give  me 
your  present  to  one  master  Bassanio,  who  indeed  gives  rare  new 
liveries.  If  I  serve  not  him,  I  will  run  as  far  as  God  has  any 
ground. —  O  rare  fortune!  here  comes  the  man;  —  to  him,  father; 
for  I  am  a  Jew  if  I  serve  the  Jew  any  longer. 


SHAKESPEARE 


13233 


THE   QUALITY   OF   MERCY 
From  <The  Merchant  of  Venice  > 

Scetie:     Venice.     A  Court  of  Justice. 

PORTIA  — 
I  am  informed  throughly  of  the  cause. 
Which  is  the  merchant  here,  and  which  the  Jew? 

£)uke —         Antonio  and  old  Shylock,  both  stand  forth. 

Portia —      Is  your  name  Shylock? 

Shxiock —  Shylock  is  my  name. 

Portia —      Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  follow; 
Yet  in  such  rule  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  impugn  you,  as  you  do  proceed. — 

{To  Antonio]  — 

You  stand  within  his  danger,  do  you  not  ? 

Antonio —    Ay,  so  he  says. 

Portia —  Do  you  confess  the  bond? 

Antonio —     I  do. 

Portia —  Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shylock —     On  what  compulsion  must  I?  tell  me  that. 

Portia —      The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained. 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath;   it  is  twice  blessed, — 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes. 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest;   it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown: 
His  sceptre-'shoWs  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway: 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings. 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this, — 
That  in  the  course  of  justice  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation :  we  do  pray  for  mercy, 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  much 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea; 
a  i  .         Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 

Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant  there. 

Chyl.'ck —     My  deeds  upon  my  head.     I  crave  the  law; 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 


13234 


SHAKESPEARE 


Scene:   Belmont. 
Jessica. 


LORENZO    AND   JESSICA 
From  <The  Merchant  of  Venice* 
The    Avenue   to   Portia's   House.      Entet    Loienzc  an^ 


c 


ORENZO  — 


The  moon  shines  bright. —  In  such  a  night  as  this. 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees, 
And  they  did  make  no  noise  —  in  such  a  night, 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sighed  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
"Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jessica —  In  such  a  night, 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew, 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself. 
And  ran  dismayed  away. 

Lorenzo —  In  such  a  night. 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks,  and  waved  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jessica —  In  such  a  night, 

Medea  gathered  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  M'&on. 

Lorenzo —  In  such  a  night. 

Did  Jessica  steal  from   the  wealthy  Jew, 
And  with  an  unthrift  love  did  run  from  Venice, 
As  far  as  Belmont. 

Jessica —  In  such  a  night, 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  loved  her  well. 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith. 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Lorenzo —  In  such  a  night. 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew, 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 

Jessica  —     I  would  out-night  you,  did  no  body  come ; 
But  hark,  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

Enter  Stephano 

Lorenzo  —  Who  comes  so  fast  in  silence  of  the  night  ? 

Stephano  —  A  friend. 

Jujrenzo —   A  friend?  what  friend?  your  name,  I  pray  you,  friend? 

Stephano  —  Stephano  is  my  name :  and  I  bring  word, 
My  mistress  will  before  the  break  of  day 
Be  here  at  Belmont;  she  doth  stray  about 


SHAKESPEARE  132  35 

By  holy  crosses,  where  she  kneels  and  prays 

For  happy  wedlock  hours. 
Lorenzo —  Who  comes  with  her? 

Stephano  —  None  but  a  holy  hermit,  and  her  maid. 

I  pray  you.  is  my  master  yet  returned  ? 
Xorenzo —   He  is  not,  nor  we  have  not  heard  from  him. — 

But  go  we  in,  I  pray  thee,  Jessica, 

And  ceremoniously  let  us  prepare 

Some  welcome  for  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

Enter  Launcelot 

Launcelot  —  Sola,  sola!   wo  ha,  ho!   sola,  sola! 

Lorenzo  —  Who  calls? 

Launcelot — Sola!     Did   you   see   master  Lorenzo,  and   mistress  Lo- 

renza  ?   sola,  sola! 

Lorenzo  —  Leave  hallooing,  man:   here. 

Launcelot  —  Sola!   where?   where? 

Lorenzo —  Here. 

Launcelot — Tell   him,   there's   a   post  come    from   my  master,  with 

his  horn  full  of  good  news:   my  master  will  be  here  ere  morning. 

{Exit. 

Lorenzo  — SiVf&Qt  soul,  let's  in,  and  there  expect  their  coming. 

And  yet  no  matter;  —  why  should  we  go  in? 

My  friend  Stephano,  signify,  I  pray  you. 

Within  the  house,  your  mistress  is  at  hand; 

And  bring  your  music  forth  into  the  air. — 

[Exit  Stephano. 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank! 

Here  we  will  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 

Creep  in  our  ears:  soft  stillness,  and  the  night. 

Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 

Sit,  Jessica:  look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 

Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold; 

There's  not  the  smallest  orb,  which  thou  beholdest, 

But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 

Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  cherubins: 

Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls; 

But  whilst  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 

Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  cannot  hear  it. 

Enter  Musicians 

Come,  hu!    and  wake  Diana  with  a  hymn: 
With  sweetest  touches  pierce  your  mistress's  ear, 
And  draw  her  home  with  music.  {Music. 

Jessica  —  I  am  never  merry  when  I  hear  sweet  music. 


13236  SHAKESPEARE 

ROSALIND,    ORLANDO,    JAQUES 
From  <As  You  Like  It> 

Scene:    The  Forest  of  Arden. 

CELiA  —  Oh,  wonderful,  wonderful,  and  most  wonderful  wonder- 
ful !  and  yet  again  wonderful,  and  after  that,  out  of  all 
whooping ! 

Rosalind — Good  my  complexion!  dost  thou  think,  though  I 
am  caparisoned  like  a  man,  I  have  a  doublet  and  hose  in  my 
disposition  ?  One  inch  of  delay  more  is  a  South  Sea  of  dis- 
covery; I  pr'ythee,  tell  me  who  is  it  quickly;  and  speak  apace. 
I  would  thou  couldst  stammer,  that  thou  mightst  pour  this  con- 
cealed man  out  of  thy  mouth  as  wine  comes  out  of  a  narrow- 
mouthed  bottle:  either  too  much  at  once,  or  none  at  all.  I 
pr'ythee  take  the  cork  out  of  thy  mouth,  that  I .  may  drink  thy 
tidings. 

Celia  —  So  you  may  put  a  man  in  your  belly. 

Rosalind —  Is  he  of  God's  making  ?  What  manner  of  man  ? 
Is  his  head  worth  a  hat,  or  his  chin  worth  a  beard  ? 

Celia — Nay,  he  hath  but  a  little  beard. 

Rosalind — Why,  God  will  send  more,  if  the  man  will  be 
thankful.  Let  me  stay  the  growth  of  his  beard,  if  thou  delay 
me  not  the  knowledge  of  his  chin. 

Celia  —  It  is  young  Orlando,  that  tripped  up  the  wrestler's 
heels  and  your  heart,  both  in  an  instant. 

Rosalind — Nay,  but  the  devil  take  mocking:  speak  sad  brow, 
and  true'  maid. 

Celia  —  r  faith,  coz,  'tis  he. 

Rosalind —  Orlando  ? 

Celia  —  Orlando. 

Rosalind — Alas  the  day!  what  shall  I  do  with  my  doublet 
and  hose?  —  What  did  he,  when  thou  saw'st  him?  What  said 
he  ?  How  looked  he  ?  Wherein  went  he  ?  What  makes  he  here  ? 
Did  he  ask  for  me  ?  Where  remains  he  ?  How  parted  he  with 
thee,  and  when  shalt  thou  see  him  again  ?  Answer  me  in  one 
word. 

Celia  —  You  must  borrow  me  Gargantua's  mouth  first:  'tis 
a  word  too  great  for  any  mouth  of  this  age's  size.  To  say  ay 
and  no  to  these  particulars  is  more  than  to  answer  in  a  cate- 
chism. 


SHAKESPEARE  13237 

Rosalind — But  doth  he  know  that  I  am  in  this  forest,  and 
in  man's  apparel  ?  Looks  he  as  freshly  as  he  did  the  day  he 
wrestled  ? 

Celia  —  It  is  as  easy  to  count  atomies,  as  to  resolve  the  prop- 
ositions of  a  lover;  but  take  a  taste  of  my  finding  him,  and 
relish  it  with  good  observance.  I  found  him  under  a  tree,  like  a 
dropped  acorn. 

Rosalind — It  may  well  be  called  Jove's  tree,  when  it  drops 
forth  such  fruit. 

Celia  —  Give  me  audience,  good  madam. 

Rosalind —  Proceed. 

Celia  —  There  lay  he  stretched  along,  like  a  wounded  knight. 

Rosalind — Though  it  be  pity  to  see  such  a  sight,  it  well  be- 
comes the  ground. 

Celia  — Cry,  holla!  to  thy  tongue,  I  pr'ythee:  it  curvets  un- 
seasonably.     He  was  furnished  like   a  hunter. 

Rosalind — Oh,  ominous!  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart. 

Celia  —  I  would  sing  my  song  without  a  burden:  thou  bring'st 
me  out  of  tune. 

Rosalind —  Do  you  not  know  I  am  a  woman  ?  when  I  think,  I 
must  speak.     Sweet,  say  on. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Jaques 

Celia  —  You  bring  me  out. —  Soft!   comes  he  not  here? 
Rosalind —  'Tis  he :  slink  by,  and  note  him. 

\R0sali71d  and  Celia  retire. 
Jaques — I    thank   you    for   your    company;    but,   good    faith,    I 
had  as  lief  have  been  myself  alone. 

Orlando  —  And  so  had  I;  but  yet,  for  fashion  sake,  I  thank 
you  too   for  your  society. 

Jaques  —  Good-by,  you:  let's  meet  as  little  as  we  can. 
Orlando  —  I  do  desire  we  may  be  better  strangers. 
Jaques — I    pray   you,   mar  no   more    trees   with   writing   love- 
songs  in   their  barks. 

Orlando — I  pray  you,  mar  no  more  of  my  verses  with  reading 
them  ill-favoredly. 

Jaques — Rosalind  is  your  love's  name? 
Orlando  —  Yes,  just. 
Jaques — I  do  not  like  her  name. 

Orlando — There  was  no  thought  of  pleasing  you,  when  she 
was  christened. 


13238 


SHAKESPEARE 


Jaques  —  What  stature  is  she  of  ? 

Orlando  —  Just  as  high  as  my  heart. 

Jaques  —  You  are  full  of  pretty  answers.  Have  you  not  been 
acquainted  with  goldsmiths'  wives,  and  conned  them  out  of  rings  ? 

Orlando  —  Not  so;  but  I  answer  you  right  painted  cloth,  from 
whence  you  have  studied  your  questions. 

Jaques  —  You  have  a  nimble  wit:  I  think  'twas  made  of  Ata- 
lanta's  heels.  Will  you  sit  down  with  me  ?  and  we  two  will  rail 
against  our  mistress  the  world,  and  all  our  misery. 

Orlando  —  I  will  chide  no  breather  in  the  world  but  myself, 
against  whom  I  know  most  faults. 

Jaques — The  worst  fault  you  have  is  to  be  in  love. 

Orlando  —  'Tis  a  fault  I  will  not  change  for  your  best  virtue. 
I  am  weary  of  you. 

Jaqties  —  By  my  troth,  I  was  seeking  for  a  fool  when  I  found 
you. 

Orlando  —  He  is  drowned  in  the  brook:  look  but  in,  and  you 
shall  see  him. 

Jaques  —  There  I  shall  see  mine  own  figure. 

Orlando  —  Which  I  take  to  be  either  a  fool  or  a  cypher. 

Jaques — I'll  tarry  no  longer  with  you.  Farewell,  good 
Signior  Love. 

Orlando  —  I  am  glad  of  your  departure.  Adieu,  good  Mon- 
sieur Melancholy. 

\^Exit  Jaques.  —  Rosalind  and  Celia  come  forward.^ 

Rosalind  [aside  to  Celia^  —  I  will  speak  to  him  like  a  saucy 
lackey,  and  under  that  habit  play  the  knave  with  him. —  [To  him.'] 
Do  you  hear,  forester  ? 

Orlando  —  Very  well:  what  would  you? 

Rosalind — I  pray  you,  what  is  't  o'clock? 

Orlando — You  should  ask  me,  what  time  o'  day:  there's  no 
clock  in  the  forest. 

Rosalind — Then  there  is  no  true  lover  in  the  forest;  else 
sighing  every  minute,  and  groaning  every  hour,  would  detect  the 
lazy  foot  of  time  as  well  as  a  clock. 

Orlando  —  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  time?  had  not  that 
been  as  proper  ? 

Rosalind — By  no  means,  sir.  Time  travels  in  divers  paces 
with  divers  persons.  I'll  tell  you  who  Time  ambles  withal,  who 
Time  trots  withal,  who  Time  gallops  withal,  and  who  he  stands 
still  withal. 


SHAKESPEARE  T3239 

Orlando  —  I  pr'ythee,  who  doth  he  trot  withal  ? 

Rosalind — Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid,  between 
the  contract  of  her  marriage  and  the  day  it  is  solemnized:  if  the 
interim  be  but  a  se'nnight,  Time's  pace  is  so  hard  that  it  seems 
the  length  of  seven  years. 

Orlando  —  Who  ambles  Time  withal? 

Rosalind  —  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin,  and  a  rich  man  that 
hath  not  the  gout:  for  the  one  sleeps  easily  because  he  cannot 
study,  and  the  other  lives  merrily  because  he  feels  no  pain;  the 
one  lacking  the  burden  of  lean  and  wasteful  learning,  the  other 
knowing  no  burden  of  heavy  tedious  penury.  These  Time 
ambles  withal. 

Orlando  —  Who  doth  he  gallop  withal  ? 

Rosalind — With  a  thief  to  the  gallows;  for  though  he  go  as 
softly  as  foot  can  fall,  he  thinks  himself  too  soon  there. 

Orlando  —  Who  stands  he  still  withal  ? 

■Rosalind — With  lawyers  in  the  vacation;  for  they  sleep  be- 
tween term  and  term,  and  then  they  perceive  not  how  time 
moves. 

Orlando  —  Where  dwell  you,  pretty  youth? 

Rosalind — With  this  shepherdess,  my  sister;  here  in  the  skirts 
of  the  forest,  like  fringe  upon  a  petticoat. 

Orlando  —  Are  you  native  of  this  place? 

Rosalind — As  the  coney,  that  you  see  dwell  where  she  is 
kindled. 

Orlando  —  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you  could  pur- 
chase in  so  removed  a  dwelling. 

Rosalind — I  have  been  told  so  of  many:  but  indeed  an  old 
religious  uncle  of  mine  taught  me  to  speak,  who  was  in  his  youth 
an  inland  man;  one  that  knew  courtship  too  well,  for  there  he 
fell  in  love.  I  have  heard  him  read  many  lectures  against 
it;  and  I  thank  God  I  am  not  a  woman,  to  be  touched  with  so 
many  giddy  offenses  as  he  hath  generally  taxed  their  whole  sex 
withal. 

Orlando  —  Can  you  remember  any  of  the  principal  evils  that 
he  laid  to  the  charge  of  women  ? 

Rosalind — There  w6re  none  principal:  they  were  all  like  one 
another,  as  halfpence  are;  every  one  fault  seeming  monstrous, 
till  his  fellow  fault  came  to  match  it, 

Orlando  —  I  pr'ythee,  recount  some  of  them. 
Rosalind —  No :  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physic  but  on  those 
that  are  sick.     There  is  a  man  haunts  the  forest,  that  abuses  our 


13240  SHAKESPEARE 

young  plants  with  carving  Rosalind  on  their  barks;  hangs  odes 
upon  hawthorns,  and  elegies  on  brambles:  all,  forsooth,  deifying 
the  name  of  Rosalind;  —  if  I  could  meet  that  fancy-monger  I 
would  give  him  some  good  counsel,  for  he  seems  to  have  the  quo- 
tidian of  love  upon  him. 

Orlando  —  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shaked.  I  pray  you,  tell 
me  your  remedy. 

Rosalind — There  is  none  of  my  uncle's  marks  upon  you:  he 
taught  me  how  to  know  a  man  in  love ;  in  which  cage  of  rushes, 
I  am  sure,  you  are  not  prisoner. 

Orlando  —  What  were  his  marks  1 

Rosalind — A  lean  cheek,  which  you  have  not;  a  blue  eye,  and 
sunken,  which  you  have  not;  an  unquestionable  spirit,  which  you 
have  not;  a  beard  neglected,  which  you  have  not;  —  but  I  par- 
don you  for  that,  for,  simply,  your  having  in  beard  is  a  younger 
brother's  revenue. —  Then,  your  hose  should  be  ungartered,  your 
bonnet  unhanded,  your  sleeve  unbuttoned,  your  shoe  untied,  and 
everything  about  you  demonstrating  a  careless  desolation.  But 
you  are  no  such  man :  you  are  rather  point-device  in  your  ac- 
coutrements; as  loving  yourself,  than  seeming  the  lover  of  any 
other. 

Orlando — Fair  youth,  I  would  I  could  make  thee  believe  I 
love. 

Rosalind —  Me  believe  it  ?  you  may  as  soon  make  her  that 
you  love  believe  it:  which,  I  warrant,  she  is  apter  to  do  than  to 
confess  she  does;  that  is  one  of  the  points  in  the  which  women 
still  give  the  lie  to  their  consciences.  But  in  good  sooth,  are 
you  he  that  hangs  the  verses  on  the  trees,  wherein  Rosalind  is 
so  admired  ? 

Orlando  —  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white  hand  of  Rosa- 
lind, I  am  that  he,  that  unfortunate  he. 

Rosalind —  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your  rhymes 
speak  ? 

Orlando  —  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express  how  much. 

Rosalind — Love  is  merely  a  madness:  and  I  tell  you,  deserves 
as  well  a  dark  house  and  a  whip  as  madmen  do;  and  the  reason 
why  they  are  not  so  punished  and  cured*  is,  that  the  lunacy  is  so 
ordinary  that  the  whippers  are  in  love  too.  Yet  I  profess  cur- 
ing it  by  counsel. 

Orlando  —  Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  ? 

Rosalind — Yes,  one;  and  in  this  manner.  He  was  to  imagine 
me  his  love,  his  mistress,  and  I  set  him  every  day  to  woo  me: 


SHAKESPEARE  13241 

at  which  time  would  I,  being  but  a  moonish  youth,  grieve,  be 
effeminate,  changeable,  longing,  and  liking;  proud,  fantastical, 
apish,  shallow,  inconstant,  full  of  tears,  full  of  smiles;  for  e very- 
passion  something,  and  for  no  passion  truly  anything,  as  boys 
and  women  are,  for  the  most  part,  cattle  of  this  color:  would 
now  like  him,  now  loathe  him;  then  entertain  him,  then  forswear 
him;  now  weep  for  him,  then  spit  at  him:  that  I  drave  my 
suitor  from  his  mad  humor  of  love,  to  a  loving  humor  of  mad- 
ness; which  was,  to  forswear  the  full  stream  of  the  world,  and 
to  live  in  a  nook,  merely  monastic.  And  thus  I  cured  him;  and 
this  way  will  I  take  upon  me  to  wash  your  liver  as  clean  as  a 
sound  sheep's  heart,  that  there  shall  not  be  one  spot  of  love  in  't. 

Orlando — I  would  not  be  cured,  youth. 

Rosalind —  I  would  cure  you,  if  you  would  but  call  me  Rosa- 
lind, and  come  every  day  to  my  cote,  and  woo  me, 

Orlando  —  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will.  Tell  me 
where  it  is. 

Rosalind — Go  with  me  to  it,  and  I'll  show  it  you;  and  by 
the  way,  you  shall  tell  me  where  in  the  forest  you  live.  Will 
you   go  ? 

Orlando  —  With  all  my  heart,  good  youth. 

Rosalind — Nay,  you  must  call  me  Rosalind. —  Come,  sister, 
will  you  go  ?  \^Exeunt. 


RICHARD   II.  IN   PRISON 
From  <  King  Richard  II.> 

Scene :   Pom  fret.     The  Dungeon  of  the  Castle.     Enter  King  Richard. 


K 


iNc;  Richard  — 

I  have  been  studying  how  I  may  compare 

This  prison,  where  I  live,  unto  the  world; 

And  for  because  the  world  is  populous, 

And  here  is  not  a  creature  but  myself, 

I  cannot  do  it:  yet  I'll  hammer  't  out. 

My  brain  I'll  prove  the  female  to  my  soul; 

My  soul,  the  father:  and  these  two  beget 

A  generation  of  still-breeding  thoughts, 

And  these  same  thoughts  people  this  little  world: 

In  humors  like  the  people  of  this  world. 

For  no  thought  is  contented.     The  better  sort, 


13242  SHAKESPEARE 

As  thoughts  of  things  divine,  are  intermixed 

With  scruples,  and  do  set  the  word  itself 

Against  the  word ; 

As  thus, —  **Come,  little  ones;*^  and  then  again,— 

<*  It  is  as  hard  to  come,  as  for  a  camel 

To  thread  the  postern  ot  a  small  needle's  eye.® 

Thoughts  tending  to  ambition,  they  do  plot 

Unlikely  wonders:  how  these  vain  weak  nails 

May  tear  a  passage  through  the  flinty  ribs 

Of  this  hard  world,  my  ragged  prison  walls; 

And,  for  they  cannot,  die  in  their  own  pride. 

Thoughts  tending  to  content  flatter  themselves 

That  they  are  not  the  first  of  fortune's  slaves, 

Nor  shall  not  be  the  last:  like  silly  beggars. 

Who,  sitting  in  the  stocks,  refuge  their  shame 

That  many  have,   and  others  must  sit  there ; 

And  in  this  thought  they  find  a  kind  of  ease, 

Bearing  their  own  misfortune  on  the  back 

Of  such  as  have  before  endured  the  like. 

Thus  play  I,  in  one  person,  many  people, 

And  none  contented:  sometimes  am  I  king; 

Then  treason  makes  me  wish  myself  a  beggar, 

And  so  I  am ;  then  crushing  penury 

Persuades  me  I  was  better  when  a  king. 

Then  am  I  kinged  again ;   and  by-and-by 

Think  that  I  am  unkinged  by  Bolingbroke, 

And  straight  am  nothing. —  But  whate'er  I  am, 

Nor  I,  nor  any  man  that  but  man  is. 

With  nothing  shall  be  pleased,  till  he  be  eased 

With  being  nothing. —  Music  do  I  hear?  [Music, 

Ha,  ha!  keep  time.  —  How  sour  sweet  music  is, 

When  time  is  broke,  and  no  proportion  kept! 

So  is  it  in  the  music  of  men's  lives; 

And  here  have  I  the  daintiness  of  ear 

To  check  time  broke  in  a  disordered  string. 

But  for  the  concord  of  my  State  and  time 

Had  not  an  ear  to  hear  my  true  time  broke. 

I  wasted  time,  and  now  doth  time  waste  me: 

For  now  hath  time  made  me  his  numbering  clock; 

My  thoughts  are  minutes,  and  with  sighs  they  jar 

Their  watches  on  unto  mine  eyes  the  outward  watch, 

Whereto  my  finger,  like  a  dial's  point. 

Is  pointing  still,  in  cleansing  them  from  tears. 

Now,  for  the  sound  that  tells  what  hour  it  is, 


SHAKESPEARE  132  43 

Are  clamorous  groans,  that  strike  upon  my  heart, 
Which  is  the  bell:  so  sighs,  and  tears,  and  groans. 
Show  minutes,  times,  and  hours;  but  my  time 
Runs  posting  on  in  Bolingbroke's  proud  joy. 
While  I  stand  fooling  here,  his  Jack  o'  the  clock. 
This  music  mads  me:  let  it  sound  no  more; 
For  though  it  hath  holpe  madmen  to  their  wits, 
In  me,  it  seems,  it  will  make  wise  men  mad. 
Yet  blessing  on  his  heart  that  gives  it  me! 
For  'tis  a  sign  of  love ;  and  love  to  Richard 
Is  a  strange  broocfh  in  this  all-hating  world. 


FALSTAFF   AND    PRINCE   HAL 
From  First  Part  of  <King  Henry  IV.> 

Scene:  Eastcheap.     A  Room  in  the  Boars  Head  Tavern.     Prince  Henry, 
Poins.     Enter  Falstaff,  Gadshill,  Bardolph,  and  Peto. 

PoiNS  —  Welcome,  Jack.     Where  hast  thou  been? 
Falstaff — A  plague  of  all  cowards,  I  say,  and  a  vengeance 

too!  marry,  and  amen!  —  Give  me  a  cup  of  sack,  boy. — Ere  I 
lead  this  life  long,  I'll  sew  nether-stocks,  and  mend  them,  and 
foot  them  too.  A  plague  of  all  cowards!  —  Give  me  a  cup  of 
sack,  rogue. —  Is  there  no  virtue  extant?  [//r  drinks. 

Prince  Henry — Didst  thou  never  see  Titan  kiss  a  dish  of 
butter  ?  pitiful-hearted  Titan,  that  melted  at  the  sweet  tale  of  the 
sun!     If  thou  didst,  then  behold  that  compound. 

Falstaff — You  rogue,  here's  lime  in  this  sack  too;  there  is 
nothing  but  roguery  to  be  found  in  villainous  man:  yet  a  coward 
is  worse  than  a  cup  of  sack  with  lime  in  it;  a  villainous  coward. 
—  Go  thy  ways,  old  Jack;  die  when  thou  wilt,  if  manhood,  good 
manhood,  be  not  forgot  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  thtn  am  I 
a  shotten  herring.  There  live  not  three  good  men  unhanged 
in  England;  and  one  of  them  is  fat,  and  grows  old:  God  help 
the  while!  a  bad  world,  I  say.  I  would  I  were  a  weaver:  I 
could  sing  psalms  or  anything.  A  plague  of  all  cowards,  I  say 
still. 

Prince  Henry — How  now,  wool-sack!  what  mutter  you? 

Falstaff — A  king's  son!  If  I  do  not  beat  thee  out  of  thy 
kingdom   with   a  dagger  of  lath,   and  drive  all  thy  subjects  afore 


13244  SHAKESPEARE 

thee  like  a  flock  of  wild  geese,  I'll  never  wear  hair  on  my  face 
more.     You  Prince  of  Wales! 

Prince  Henry  —  Why,    you    whoreson    round    man,   what's    the 

matter  ? 

Fahtaff — Are   you    not   a    coward?    answer    me    to   that!    and 

Poins  there  ? 

Poins —  Zo^xrii^.'s,\    ye    fat   paunch,  and   ye    call   me    coward,    I'll 

stab  thee. 

Fahtaff— \  call  thee  coward!  I'll  see  thee  damned  ere  I  call 
thee  coward;  but  I  would  give  a  thousand  pound  I  could  run  as 
fast  as  thou  canst.  You  are  straight  enough  in  the  shoulders; 
you  care  not  who  sees  your  back.  Call  you  that  backing  of 
your  friends  ?  A  plague  upon  such  backing !  give  me  them  that 
will  face  me. —  Give  me  a  cup  of  sack:  I  am  a  rogue  if  I  drimk 
to-day. 

Prince  Henry  —  O  villain!   thy  lips  are  scarce  wiped  since  thou 

drunkest  last. 

Falstaff—MVs  one  for  that.  [He  drinks.']  A  plague  of  all 
cowards,  still  say  I. 

Prince  Henry  —  What's  the  matter? 

Fahtaff — What's  the  matter?  there  be  four  of  us  here  have 
ta'en  a  thousand  pound  this  day  morning. 

Prince  Henry  —  Where  is  it.  Jack!   where  is  it? 

Fahtaff— Where  is  it?  taken  from  us  it  is:  a  hundred  upon 
poor  four  of  us. 

Prince  Henry — What,  a  hundred,  man? 

Fahtaff — I  am  a  rogue,  if  I  were  not  at  half -sword  with 
a  dozen  of  them  two  hours  together.  I  have  'scaped  by  miracle. 
I  am  eight  times  thrust  through  the  doublet;  four  through  the 
hose;  my  buckler  cut  through  and  through;  my  sword  hacked 
like  a  hand-saw:  eccesignum.  [Drawing  it.]  I  never  dealt  better 
since  I  was  a  man:  all  would  not  do.  A  plague  of  all  cowards! 
—  Let  them  speak:  if  they  speak  more  or  less  than  truth  they 
are  villains,  and  the  sons  of  darkness. 

Prince  Henry  —  Speak,  sirs:   how  was  it? 

BardolpJi  —  We  four  set  upon  some  dozen, — 

Fahtaff — Sixteen,  at  least,  my  lord. 

Bardolph  —  And  bound  them. 

Peto  —  No,  no,  they  were  not  bound. 

Fahtaff— You  rogue,  they  were  bound,  every  man  of  them; 
or  I  am  a  Jew  e^se,  an  Ebrew  Jew. 


SHAKESPEARE  13245 

Bardolph  —  As  we  were  sharing,  some  six  or  seven  fresh  men 
set  upon  us, — 

Falstaff — And  unbound  the  rest,  and  then  come  in  the  other. 

Prince  Henry — What!   fought  ye  with  them  all? 

Falstaff —  All  ?  I  know  not  what  ye  call  all :  but  if  I  fought 
not  with  fifty  of  them,  I  am  a  bunch  of  radish;  if  there  were 
not  two  or  three  and  fifty  upon  poor  old  Jack,  then  am  I  no 
two-legged  creature. 

Prince    Henry  —  Pray    God    3^ou    have    not    murdered    some    of 
them. 

Falstaff — Nay,  that's  past  praying  for:  I  have  peppered  two 
of  them;  two,  I  am  sure,  I  have  paid;  two  rogues  in  buckram 
suits.  I  tell  thee  what,  Hal  —  if  I  tell  thee  a  lie,  spit  in  my 
face,  call  me  horse.  Thou  knowest  my  old  ward; — here  I  lay, 
and  thus  I  bore  my  point.  Four  rogues  in  buckram  let  drive  at 
me, — 

Prince  Henry  —  What,  four?  thou  saidst  but  two  even  now. 

Falstaff — Four,  Hal;   I  told  thee  four. 

Poins  —  Ay,  ay,  he  said  four. 

Falstaff — These  four  came  all  a-front,  and  mainly  thrust 
at  me.  I  made  me  no  more  ado,  but  took  all  their  seven  points 
in  my  target,  thus. 

Prince  Henry  —  Seven?   why,  there   were   but  four  even  now, 

Falstaff — In  buckram. 

Poins  —  Ay,  four  in  buckram  suits. 

Falstaff — Seven,  by  these  hilts,  or  I  am  a  villain  else. 

Prince  Henry  [to  Poins]  —  Pr'ythee,  let  him  alone:  we  shall 
have  more   anon. 

Falstaff — Dost  thou  hear  me,  Hal? 

Prince  Henry  —  Ay,  and  mark  thee  too,  Jack. 

Falstaff — Do  so,  for  it  is  worth  the  listening  to.  These  nine 
in  buckram,  that  I  told  thee  of, — 

Prince  Henry  —  So,  two  more  already. 

Falstaff — Their  points  being  broken, — 

Poins  —  Down  fell  their  hose. 

Falstaff' — Began  to  give  me  ground;  but  I  followed  me  close, 
came  in,  foot  and  hand,  and  with  a  thought,  seven  of  the  eleven 
I   paid. 

Prince  Henry — Oh,  monstrous!  eleven  buckram  men  grown 
out  of  two. 


13246  SHAKESPEARE 

Falstaff — But  as  the  Devil  would  have  it,  three  misbegotten 
knaves  in  Kendal-green  came  at  my  back,  and  let  drive  at  me; 
—  for  it  was  so  dark,  Hal,  that   thou   couldst   not  see   thy  hand. 

Prince  Henry  —  These  lies  are  like  the  father  that  begets 
them:  gross  as  a  mountain;  open,  palpable.  Why,  thou  clay- 
brained  guts,  thou  knotty-pated  fool,  thou  whoreson,  obscene, 
greasy  tallow-keech  — 

Falstaff —  What !  art  thou  mad  ?  art  thou  mad  ?  is  not  the 
truth  the  truth  ? 

PriJice  Henry  —  Why,  how  couldst  thou  know  these  men  were 
in  Kendal-green,  when  it  was  so  dark  thou  couldst  not  see  thy 
hand  ?     Come,  tell  us  your  reason :  what  sayest  thou  to  this  ? 

Poins — Come,  your  reason,  Jack,  your  reason. 

Falstaff — What,  upon  compulsion?  No:  were  I  at  the  strap- 
pado or  all  the  racks  in  the  world,  I  would  not  tell  you  on  com- 
pulsion. Give  you  a  reason  on  compulsion !  if  reasons  were  as 
plenty  as  blackberries,  I  would  give  no  man  a  reason  upon  com- 
pulsion, I. 

Prince  Henry  —  I'll  be  no  longer  guilty  of  this  sin:  this  san- 
guine coward,  this  bed-presser,  this  horse-back-breaker,  this  huge 
hill  of  flesh  — 

Falstaff — Away,  you  starveling,  you  elf-skin,  you  dried  neat's- 
tongue,  bull's  pizzle,  you  stockfish, —  oh  for  breath  to  utter  what 
is  like  thee!  —  you  tailor's  yard,  you  sheath,  you  bow-case,  you 
vile  standing-tuck  — 

Prince  Henry  —  Well,  breathe  awhile,  and  then  to  it  asfain: 
and  when  thou  hast  tired  thyself  in  base  comparisons,  hear  me 
speak  but  this. 

Poins — Mark,  Jack. 

Prince  Hejiry  —  We  two  saw  you  four  set  on  four;  you  bound 
them,  and  were  masters  of  their  wealth. —  Mark  now,  how  plain 
a  tale  shall  put  you  down.  —  Then  did  we  two  set  on  you  four, 
and  with  a  word,  outfaced  you  from  your  prize,  and  have  it; 
yea,  and  can  show  it  you  here  in  the  house.  —  And,  Falstaff, 
you  carried  your  guts  away  as  nimbly,  with  as  quick  dexterity, 
and  roared  for  mercy,  and  still  ran  and  roared,  as  ever  I  heard 
bullcalf.  What  a  slave  art  thou,  to  hack  thy  sword  as  thou  hast 
done,  and  then  say  it  was  in  fight!  What  trick,  what  device, 
what  starting-hole,  canst  thou  now  find  out,  to  hide  thee  from 
this  open  and  apparent  shame  ? 


SHAKESPEARE  13247 

Poins  —  Come,  let's  hear,  Jack:   what  trick  hast  thou  now? 

Falstaff—By  the  Lord,  I  knew  ye  as  well  as  He  that  made 
ye.  Why,  hear  ye,  my  masters:  was  it  for  me  to  kill  the  heir 
apparent  ?  Should  I  turn  upon  the  true  prince  ?  Why,  thou 
knowest  I  am  as  valiant  as  Hercules:  but  beware  instinct;  the 
lion  will  not  touch  the  true  prince.  Instinct  is  a  great  matter;  I 
was  a  coward  on  instinct.  I  shall  think  the  better  of  myself  and 
thee  during  my  life;  I  for  a  valiant  lion,  and  thou  for  a  true 
prince.     But  by  the  Lord,  lads,  I  am  glad  you  have  the  money. 


FALSTAFF'S  ARMY 
From  First  Part  of  <King  Henry  IV.> 

Scene:  A  public  road  near  Coventry.     Enter  Falstaflf  and  Bardolph. 

FALSTAFF — Bardolph,  get  thee  before  to  Coventry;  fill  me  a 
bottle  of  sack.  Our  soldiers  shall  march  through;  we'll  to 
Sutton-Colfield  to-night. 

Bardolph  —  Will  you  give  me  money,  captain  ? 

Falstaff —  Lay  out,  lay  out. 

Bardolph  —  This  bottle  makes  an  angel. 

Falstaff — An  if  it  do,  take  it  for  thy  labor;  and  if  it  make 
twenty,  take  them  all, —  I'll  answer  the  coinage.  Bid  my  lieuten- 
ant Peto  meet  me  at  the  town's  end. 

Bardolph — I  will,  captain:   farewell.  \^Exit. 

Falstaff — If  I  be  not  ashamed  of  my  soldiers,  I  am  a  soused 
gurnet.  I  have  misused  the  King's  press  damnably.  I  have  got, 
in  exchange  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  soldiers,  three  hundred  and 
odd  pounds.  I  pressed  me  none  but  good  householders,  yeomen's 
sons;  inquired  me  out  contracted  bachelors,  such  as  had  been 
asked  twice  on  the  bans:  such  a  commodity  of  warm  slaves,  as 
had  as  lief  hear  the  Devil  as  a  drum;  such  as  fear  the  report 
of  a  caliver  worse  than  a  struck  fowl  or  a  hurt  wild-duck.  I 
pressed  me  none  but  such  toasts  and  butter,  with  hearts  in  their 
bellies  no  bigger  than  pins'-heads,  and  they  have  bought  out 
their  services;  and  now  my  whole  charge  consists  of  ancients, 
corporals,  lieutenants,  gentlemen  of  companies,  slaves  as  ragged 
as  Lazarus  in  the  painted  cloth,  where  the  glutton's  dogs  licked 
his   sores;    and  such  as  indeed  were  never  soldiers,  but  discarded 


13248  SHAKESPEARE 

unjust  serving-men,  younger  sons  to  younger  brothers,  revolted 
tapsters,  and  ostlers  trade-f alien ;  the  cankers  of  a  calm  world 
and  a  long  peace;  ten  times  more  dishonorable  ragged  than  an 
old  pieced  ancient:  and  such  have  I,  to  fill  up  the  rooms  of  them 
that  have  bought  out  their  services,  that  you  would  think  that 
I  had  a  hundred  and  fifty  tattered  prodigals,  lately  come  from 
swine-keeping,  from  eating  draff  and  husks.  A  mad  fellow  met 
me  on  the  way,  and  told  me  I  had  unloaded  all  the  gibbets  and 
pressed  the  dead  bodies.  No  eye  hath  seen  such  scarecrows. 
I'll  not  march  through  Coventry  with  them,  that's  flat;  —  nay,  and 
the  villains  march  wide  betwixt  the  legs,  as  if  they  had  gyves 
on;  for  indeed  I  had  the  most  of  them  out  of  prison.  There's 
but  a  shirt  and  a  half  in  all  my  company:  and  the  half  shirt  is 
two  napkins,  tacked  together,  and  thrown  over  the  shoulders  like 
a  herald's  coat  without  sleeves;  and  the  shirt,  to  say  the  truth, 
stolen  from  my  host  at  St.  Albans,  or  the  red-nosed  innkeeper 
of  Daventry.  But  that's  all  one:  they'll  find  linen  enough  on 
every  hedge. 

Enter  Prince  Henry  and  Westmoreland 

Prince  Henry  —  How  now,  blown  Jack!   how  now,  quilt! 

Falstaff —  What,  Hal !  how  now,  mad  wag !  what  a  devil  dost 
thou  in  Warwickshire  ?  —  My  good  lord  of  Westmoreland,  I  cry 
you  mercy:  I  thought  your  Honor  had  already  been  at  Shrews- 
bury. 

Westmoreland —  Faith,  Sir  John,  'tis  more  than  time  that  I 
were  there,  and  you  too;  but  my  powers  are  there  already.  The 
King,  I  can  tell  you,  looks  for  us  all:   we  must  away  all  night. 

Falstaff — Tut,  never  fear  me:  I  am  as  vigilant  as  a  cat  to 
steal  cream. 

Prince  Henry  —  I  think,  to  steal  cream  indeed ;  for  thy  theft 
hath  already  made  thee  butter.  But  tell  me,  Jack:  whose  fellows 
are  these  that  come  after  ? 

Falstaff —  Mine,  Hal,  mine. 

Prince  Henry  —  I  did  never  see  such  pitiful  rascals. 

Falstaff — Tut,   tut!    good    enough    to    toss;    food    for    powder, 
food  for  powder;    they'll  fill   a  pit  as  well  as  better:    tush,  man 
mortal  men,  mortal  men. 

Westmoreland — Ay,  but.  Sir  John,  methinks  they  are  exceed- 
ing poor  and  bare;  too  beggarly. 


SHAKESPEARE  I3249 

Falstaff—Ysath,  for  their  poverty,  I  know  not  where  they  had 
that;  and   for  their  bareness,  I   am   sure  they  never  learned  that 

of  me. 

Prince  Henry  —  No,  I'll  be  sworn;  imless  you  call  three  fin^ 
gers  on  the  ribs,  bare.  But,  sirrah,  make  haste:  Percy  is  already 
in  the  field. 

Falstaff—^\i2ii,  is  the  King  encamped? 

Westmoreland— Yie  is,  Sir  John:  I  fear  we  shall  stay  too  long. 

Falstaff—'^QW  — 

To  the  latter  end  of  a  fray,  and  the  beginning  of  a  feast. 
Fits  a  dull  fighter,  and  a  keen  guest. 


FALSTAFF   IN    BATTLE 
From  First  Part  of  <King  Henry  IV.  > 

Scene:    Plain    near    Shrewsbury.      Prince    Henry  fights    u'ith  Hotspur. 
Enter  Douglas :   he  fights  7vith   Falstaff ,  who  falls  doiun  as  if 
he  were  dead,  and  exit  Douglas.     Hotspur  is  wounded,  and  falls. 

HOTSPUR  —  O  Harry!  thou  hast  robbed  me  of  my  youth. 
I  better  brook  the  loss  of  brittle  life, 
Than  those  proud  titles  thou  hast  won  of  me; 
They  wound  my  thoughts  worse  than  thy  sword  my  flesh. — 
But  thought's  the  slave  of  life,  and  life  time's  fool: 
And  time,  that  takes  survey  of  all  the  world, 
Must  have  a  stop.     Oh,  I  could  prophesy, 
But  that  the  earthy  and  cold  hand  of  death 
Lies  on  my  tongue.  —  No,  Percy,  thou  art  dust. 
And  food  for—  {Did 

Prince  Henry  — 

For  worms,  brave  Percy.     Fare  thee  well,  gfreat  heart:  — 

lU-weaved  ambition,  how  much  art  thou  shrunk! 

When  that  this  body  did  contain  a  spirit, 

A  kingdom  for  it  was  too  small  a  bound ; 

But  now,  two  paces  of  the  vilest  earth 

Is  room  enough;  —  this  earth  that  bears  thee  dead. 

Bears  not  alive  so  stout  a  gentleman. 

If  thou  wert  sensible  of  courtesy, 

I  should  not  make  so  dear  a  show  of  zeal; 

But  let  my  favors  hide  thy  mangled  face. 

And  even  in  thy  behalf,  I'll  thank  myself 


13250  SHAKESPEARE 

For  doing  these  fair  rites  of  tenderness. 
Adieu,  and  take  thy  praise  with  thee  to  heaven : 
Thy  ignomy  sleep  with  thee  in  the  grave. 
But  not  remembered  in  thy  epitaph. — 
{Seeing  Falstaff  on  the  ground.^ 

What,  old  acquaintance !  could  not  all  this  flesh 

Keep  in  a  little  life  ?     Poor  Jack,  farewell : 

I  could  have  better  spared  a  better  man. 

Oh !  I  should  have  a  heavy  miss  of  thee, 

If  I  were  much  in  love  with  vanity. 

Death  hath  not  struck  so  fat  a  deer  to-day, 

Though  many  dearer,  in  this  bloody  fray. — 

Emboweled  will  I  see  thee  by-and-by; 

Till  then,  in  blood  by  noble  Percy  lie.  \Exit. 

Falstaff  [rising]  —  Emboweled!  If  thou  embowel  me  to-day,  I'll 
give  you  leave  to  powder  me,  and  eat  me  too,  to-morrow.  'Sblood! 
'twas  time  to  coimterfeit,  or  that  hot  termagant  Scot  had  paid  me 
scot  and  lot  too.  .Counterfeit?  I  lie;  I  am  no  counterfeit:  to  die  is 
to  be  a  counterfeit;  for  he  is  but  the  counterfeit  of  a  man  who  hath 
not  the  life  of  a  man :  but  to  counterfeit  dying,  when  a  man  thereby 
liveth,  is  to  be  no  counterfeit,  but  the  true  and  perfect  image  of  life 
indeed.  The  better  part  of  valor  is  discretion;  in  the  which  better 
part,  I  have  saved  my  life.  'Zounds!  I  am  afraid  of  this  gunpowder 
Percy,  though  he  be  dead.  How  if  he  should  counterfeit  too,  and 
rise  ?  By  my  faith,  I  am  afraid  he  would  prove  the  better  counter- 
feit. Therefore  I'll  make  him  sure;  yea,  and  I'll  swear  I  killed  him. 
Why  may  not  he  rise,  as  well  as  I  ?  Nothing  confutes  me  but  eyes, 
and  nobody  sees  me;  therefore,  sirrah,  with  a  new  wound  in  youi 
thigh  come  you  along  with  me.  [He  takes  Hotspur  on  his  back. 

Re-enter  Prince  Henry  and  Prince  John 

Prince  Henry  — 

Come,  brother  John :   full  bravely  hast  thou  fleshed 

Thy  maiden  sword. 
Prince  John  —  But  soft !    whom  have  we  here  ? 

Did  you  not  tell  me  this  fat  man  was  dead  } 
Prince  Henry  — 

I  did;  I  saw  him  dead,  breathless,  and  bleeding 

On  the  ground. — 

Art  thou  alive,  or  is  it  phantasy 

That  plays  upon  our  eyesight?     I  pr'ythee,  speak; 

We  will  not  trust  our  eyes,  without  our  ears. 

Thou  art  not  what  thou  seemest. 


I 


SHAKESPEARE  13251 

Falstaff—^0,  that's  certain:  I  am  not  a  double  man;  but  if  I  be 
not  Jack  Falstaflf,  then  am  I  a  Jack.  There  is  Percy  [throwing  down 
the  body]:  if  your  father  will  do  me  any  honor,  so;  if  not,  let  him 
kill  the  next  Percy  himself.  I  look  to  be  either  earl  or  duke,  I  can 
assure  you. 

Prince  Henry  —  Why,  Percy  I  killed  myself,  and  saw  thee  dead. 
Falstaff — Didst  thou?  —  Lord,  lord,  how  this  world  is  given  to 
lying!  —  I  grant  you  I  was  down  and  out  of  breath,  and  so  was  he; 
but  we  rose  both  at  an  instant,  and  fought  a  long  hour  by  Shrews- 
bury clock.  If  I  may  be  believed,  so;  if  not,  let  them  that  should 
reward  valor  bear  the  sin  upon  their  own  heads.  I'll  take  it  upon 
my  death,  I  gave  him  this  wound  in  the  thigh :  if  the  man  were 
alive,  and  would  deny  it — 'zounds!  I  would  make  him  eat  a  piece  of 
my  sword. 

Prince  John  — 

This  is  the  strangest  tale  that  e'er  I  heard. 
Prifice  Henry  — 

This  is  the  strangest  fellow,  brother  John. — 
Come,  bring  your  luggage  nobly  on  your  back: 
For  my  part,  if  a  lie  may  do  thee  grace, 
I'll  gild  it  with  the  happiest  terms  I  have. 

[A  retreat  is  sounded.] 

The  trumpet  sounds  retreat;   the  day  is  ours. 
Come,  brother,  let  us  to  the  highest  of  the  field, 
To  see  what  friends  are  living,  who  are  dead. 

[Exeunt  Prince  Henry  and  Prince  John. 
Falstaff — I'll  follow  as  they  say,  for  reward.     He  that  rewards  me, 
God  reward  him:  if  I  do  grow  great,  I'll  grow  less;  for  I'll  purge,  and 
leave  sack,  and  live  cleanly,  as  a  nobleman  should  do. 

[E^it,  dragging  out  Percy's  body. 


HENRY'S  WOOING   OF    KATHARINE 

From  <King  Henry  V.> 

Scene:   A?i  Apartment  in  the  French  Kifig's  Palace. 

iNG  Hknrv — Fair  Katharine,  and  most  fair! 
Will  you  vouchsafe  to  teach  a  soldier  terms, 
Such  as  will  enter  at  a  lady's  ear, 
And  plead  his  love-suit  to  her  gentle  heart? 

Katharine  —  Your   Majesty  shall   mock  at   me:    I   cannot  speak 
your  England. 


K' 


1^25  2  SHAKESPEARE 

King  Henry  —  O  fair  Katharine!  if  you  will  love  me  soundly 
with  your  French  heart,  I  will  be  glad  to  hear  you  confess  it 
brokenly  with  your  English  tongue.      Do  you  like  me,  Kate  ? 

Katharine  —  Pardonnez  moi,  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  —  like  me. 

King  Henry  —  An  angel  is  like  you,  Kate;  and  you  are  like 
an  angel. 

Katharine — Que  dit-il?   que  je  suis  semblable  a  les  anges? 

Alice — Ouy^  vraiment,  sauf  vostre  Grace,  ainsi  dit  il. 

King  Henry  —  I  said  so,  dear  Katharine,  and  I  must  not  blush 
to  affirm  it. 

Katharine  —  O  bon  Dieuf  les  langues  des  homines  sont  pleines 
de  tromperies. 

King  Henry  —  What  says  she,  fair  one  ?  that  the  tongues  of 
men  are  full  of  deceits  ? 

Alice — Ouy;  dat  de  tongues  of  de  mans  is  be  full  of  deceits: 
dat  is  de  princess. 

King  Henry  —  The  princess  is  the  better  Englishwoman.  I' 
faith,  Kate,  my  wooing  is  fit  for  thy  understanding.  I  am  glad 
thou  canst  speak  no  better  English;  for  if  thou  couldst,  thou 
wouldst  find  me  such  a  plain  king,  that  thou  wouldst  think  I 
had  sold  my  farm  to  buy  my  crown.  I  know  no  ways  to  mince 
it  in  love,  but  directly  to  say  —  I  love  you:  then,  if  you  urge  me 
farther  than  to  say — Do  you,  in  faith?  I  wear  out  my  suit. 
Give  me  your  answer;  i'  faith,  do,  and  so  clap  hands,  and  a  bar- 
gain.    How  say  you,  lady  ? 

Katharine  —  Sauf  vostre  Honneur,  me  understand  well. 

King  Henry — Marry,  if  you  would  put  me  to  verses,  or  to 
dance  for  your  sake,  Kate,  why  you  undid  me:  for  the  one,  I 
have  neither  words  nor  measure;  and  for  the  other,  I  have  no 
strength  in  measure,  yet  a  reasonable  measure  in  strength.  If  I 
could  win  a  lady  at  leap-frog,  or  by  vaulting  into  my  saddle  with 
my  armor  on  my  back,  under  the  correction  of  bragging  be  it 
spoken,  I  should  quickly  leap  into  a  wife;  or  if  I  might  buffet 
for  my  love,  or  bound  my  horse  for  her  favors,  I  could  lay  on 
like  a  butcher,  and  sit  like  a  jackanapes,  never  off:  but  before 
God,  Kate,  I  cannot  look  greenly,  nor  gasp  out  my  eloquence, 
nor  I  have  no  cunning  in  protestation;  only  downright  oaths 
which  I  never  use  till  urged,  nor  never  break  for  urging.  If 
thou  canst  love  a  fellow  of  this  temper,  Kate,  whose  face  is  not 
worth  sunburning,  that  never  looks  in  his  glass  for  love  of  any- 
thing he  sees  there,  let  thine   eye  be  thy  cook.      I  speak  to  thee 


SHAKESPEARE  IS^SS 

plain  boldier:  if  thou  canst  love  me  for  this,  take  me:  if  not,  to 
say  to  thee  that  I  shall  die,  is  true;  but  for  thy  love,  by  the 
Lord,  no:  yet  I  love  thee  too.  And  while  thou  livest,  dear  Kate, 
take  a  fellow  of  plain  and  uncoined  constancy:  for  he  perforce 
must  do  thee  right,  because  he  hath  not  the  gift  to  woo  in  other 
places;  for  these  fellows  of  infinite  tongue,  that  can  rhyme  them- 
selves into  ladies'  favors,  they  do  always  reason  themselves  out 
again.  What!  a  speaker  is  but  a  prater;  a  rhyme  is  but  a  bal 
lad.  A  good  leg  will  fall,  a  straight  back  will  stoop,  a  black 
beard  will  turn  white,  a  curled  pate  will  grow  bald,  a  fair  face 
will  wither,  a  full  eye  will  wax  hollow:  but  a  good  heart,  Kate, 
is  the  sun  and  the  moon;  or  rather  the  sun  and  not  the  moon, 
for  it  shines  bright,  and  never  changes,  but  keeps  his  course 
truly.  If  thou  would  have  such  a  one,  take  me;  and  take  me, 
take  a  soldier;  take  a  soldier,  take  a  king:  and  what  sayest  thou 
then  to  my  love  ?    Speak,  my  fair,  and  fairly,  I  pray  thee. 

Katharine  —  Is  it  possible  dat  I  should  love  de  enemy  of 
France  ? 

King  Henry  —  No ;  it  is  not  possible  you  should  love  the 
enemy  of  France,  Kate:  but  in  loving  me  you  should  love  the 
friend  of  France,  for  I  love  France  so  well  that  I  will  not  part 
with  a  village  of  it;  I  will  have  it  all  mine:  and,  Kate,  when 
France  is  mine  and  I  am  yours,  then  yours  is  France,  and  you 
are  mine. 

Katharine — I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat. 

Kifig  Henry  —  No,  Kate?  I  will  tell  thee  in  French,  which 
I  am  sure  will  hang  upon  my  tongue  like  a  new-married  wife 
about  her  husband's  neck,  hardly  to  be  shook  off. —  Quand  fai 
la  possession  de  France,  et  quatid  vous  avez  la  possession  de  nioi 
(let  me  see,  what  then  ?  St.  Dennis  be  my  speed !) —  done  vostre 
est  Fratice,  ct  voiis  etcs  mienne.  It  is  as  easy  for  me,  Kate,  to 
conquer  the  kingdom,  as  to  speak  so  much  more  French.  I  shall 
never  move  thee  in  French,  unless  it  be  to  laugh  at  me. 

Katharine  —  Sanf  vostre  Honneur,  le  Francois  que  vous  parlez^ 
est  meilleur  que  VAnglois  leguel  je  parle. 

King  Henry — No,  faith,  is  't  not,  Kate;  but  thy  speaking  of 
my  tongue,  and  I  thine,  most  truly  falsely,  must  needs  be  granted 
to  be  much  at  one.  But  Kate,  dost  thou  understand  thus  much 
English  ?     Canst  thou  love  me  ? 

Katharine  —  I  cannot  tell. 


T32  54  SHAKESPEARE 

King  Henry  —  Can  any  of  your  neighbors  tell,  Kate?  I'll  ask 
them.  Come,  I  know  thou  lovest  me:  and  at  night  when  you 
come  into  your  closet,  you'll  question  this  gentlewoman  about 
me;  and  I  know,  Kate,  you  will,  to  her,  dispraise  those  parts  m 
me  that  you  love  with  your  heart:  but,  good  Kate,  mock  me 
mercifully, — the  rather,  gentle  princess,  because  I  love  thee  cru- 
elly. If  ever  thou  be'st  mine,  Kate  (as  I  have  a  saving  faith 
within  me  tells  me  thou  shalt),  I  get  thee  with  scambling,  and 
thou  must  therefore  needs  prove  a  good  soldier-breeder.  Shall 
not  thou  and  I,  between  St.  Dennis  and  St.  George,  compound  a 
boy,  half  French,  half  English,  that  shall  go  to  Constantinople 
and  take  the  Turk  by  the  beard  ?  shall  we  not  ?  what  sayest 
thou,  my  fair  flower-de-luce  ? 

KatJiarine — I  do  not  know  dat. 

King  Henry  —  No:  'tis  hereafter  to  know,  but  now  to  promise; 
do  but  now  promise,  Kate,  you  will  endeavor  for  your  French 
part  of  such  a  boy,  and  for  my  English  moiety  take  the  word  of 
a  king  and  a  bachelor.  How  answer  you,  la  phis  belle  Katharine 
du  nwnde,  uion  trh  chere  et  divine  de'esse? 

Katharine  —  Your  Majesty  have  fausse  French  enough  to  de- 
ceive de  most  sage  damoiselle  dat  is  en  France. 

King  Henry  —  Now,  fie  upon  my  false  French !  By  mine 
honor,  in  true  English,  I  love  thee,  Kate:  by  which  honor  I  dare 
not  swear  thou  lovest  me;  yet  my  blood  begins  to  flatter  me 
that  thou  dost,  notwithstanding  the  poor  and  untenipting  effect 
of  my  visage.  Now  beshrew  my  father's  ambition!  he  was  think- 
ing of  civil  wars  when  he  got  me ;  therefore  was  I  created  with 
a  stubborn  outside,  with  an  aspect  of  iron,  that  when  I  come  to 
woo  ladies,  I  fright  them.  But  in  faith,  Kate,  the  elder  I  wax, 
the  better  I  shall  appear;  my  comfort  is,  that  old  age,  that  ill 
layer-up  of  beauty,  can  do  no  more  spoil  upon  my  face:  thou 
hast  me,  if  thou  hast  me,  at  the  worst;  and  thou  shalt  wear  me, 
if  thou  wear  me,  better  and  better.  And  therefore  tell  me,  most 
fair  Katharine,  will  you  have  me?  Put  off  your  maiden  blushes; 
avouch  the  thoughts  of  your  heart  with  the  looks  of  an  empress; 
take  me  by  the  hand,  and  say  —  Harry  of  England,  I  am  thine.- 
which  word  thou  shalt  no  sooner  bless  mine  ear  withal,  but  I 
will  tell  thee  aloud  —  England  is  thine,  Ireland  is  thine,  France 
is  thine,  and  Henry  Plantagenet  is  thine;  who,  though  I  speak 
it  before  his  face,  if  he  be  not  fellow  with  the  best  king,  thou 


SHAKESPEARE  13255 

shalt  find  the  best  king  of  good  fellows.  Come,  your  answer  in 
broken  music, —  for  thy  voice  is  music,  and  thy  English  broken; 
therefore,  queen  of  all,  Katharine,  break  thy  mind  to  me  in 
broken    English :    wilt  thou  have   me  ? 

Katharine  —  Dat  is  as  it  shall  please  de  roi  mon  ph'e. 

King  Henry — Nay,  it  will  please  him  well,  Kate;  it  shall 
please  him,  Kate. 

KatJiarifie  —  Den  it  shall  also  content  me. 

King  Henry  —  Upon  that  I  kiss  your  hand,  and  I  call  you  my 
queen. 

Katharine — Laissez,  mon  seigneur^  laissez^  laissez  !  Ma  foi,  je 
ne  veux  point  que  voiis  abbaisscz  vostre  grandeur^  eji  baisant  la 
main  d'line  vostre  indigne  serviteure:  excusez  moi,  je  vous  sup- 
plie,  vwn   trts  puissant  seigneur. 

King  Heyiry  —  Then  I  will  kiss  your  lips,  Kate. 

Katharitie  —  Les  dames,  et  damoiselles,  pour  estre  baistfes  devant 
leur  noces  il  n'est  pas  la  coutume  de  France. 

King  Henry  —  Madam,  my  interpreter,  what  says  she  ? 

Alice  —  Dat  it  is  not  be  de  fashion  pour  les  ladies  of  France  — 
I  cannot  tell  what  is  baiser  in  English  — 

King  Henry  —  To  kiss. 

Alice  —  Your  Majesty  entend  bettre  que  moi. 

King  Henry — It  is  not  a  fashion  for  the  maids  in  France  to 
kiss  before  they  are  married,  would  she  say  ? 

A  Ike — Ouy,  vraiment. 

King  Henry  —  O  Kate !  nice  customs  curtcey  to  great  kings. 
Dear  Kate,  you  and  I  cannot  be  confined  within  the  weak  list  of 
a  country's  fashion:  we  are  the  makers  of  manners,  Kate;  and 
the  liberty  that  follows  our  places  stops  the  mouths  of  all  find- 
faults,  as  I  will  do  yours,  for  upholding  the  nice  fashion  of  your 
country  in  denying  me  a  kiss:  therefore,  patiently  and  yielding. 
\Kissing  her.'\  You  have  witchcraft  in  your  lips,  Kate:  there  is 
more  eloquence  in  a  sugar  touch  of  them,  than  in  the  tongues  of 
the  French  council ;  and  they  should  sooner  persuade  Harry  of 
England,  than  a  general  petition  of  monarchs.  Here  comes  your 
father. 


* 


1.3256  SHAKESPEARE 

GLOSTER  AND  ANNE:   GLOSTER'S  SOLILOQUY 
From  <  King  Richard  III.> 

WAS  ever  woman  m  this  humor  wooed  ?  I 

Was  ever  woman  in  this  humor  won  ? 
I'll  have  her,  but  I  will  not  keep  her  long. 
What!   I  that  killed  her  husband,  and  his  father, 
To  take  her  in  her  heart's  extremest  hate; 
With  curses  in  her  mouth,  tears  in  her  eyes, 
The  bleeding  witness  of  my  hatred  by,  I 

Having  God,  her  conscience,  and  these  bars  against  me. 
And  I  no  friends  to  back  my  suit  withal. 
But  the  plain  Devil,  and  dissembling  looks. 
And  yet  to  win  her, —  all  the  world  to  nothing!     Ha! 
Hath  she  forgot  already  that  brave  prince, 
Edward,  her  lord,  whom  I,  some  three  months  since, 
Stabbed  in  my  angry  mood  at  Tewksbury  ? 
A  sweeter  and  a  lovelier  gentleman  — 
Framed  in  the  prodigality  of  nature. 
Young,  valiant,  wise,  and  no  doubt  right  royal  — 
The  spacious  world  cannot  again  afiford: 
And  will  she  yet  abase  her  eyes  on  me. 
That  cropped  the  golden  prime  of  this  sweet  prince, 
And  made  her  widow  to  a  woeful  bed  ? 
On  me,  whose  all  not  equals  Edward's  moiety  ?  • 
On  me,  that  halt,  and  am  misshapen  thus  ? 
My  dukedom  to  a  beggarly  denier, 
I  do  mistake  my  person  all  this  while: 
Upon  my  life,  she  finds,  although  I  cannot, 
Myself  to  be  a  marvelous  proper  man. 
I'll  be  at  charges  for  a  looking-glass; 
And  entertain  a  score  or  two  of  tailors, 
To  study  fashions  to  adorn  my  body : 
Since  I  am  crept  in  favor  with  myself, 
I  will  maintain  it  with  some  little  cost. 
But,  first,  I'll  turn  yon'  fellow  in  his  grave. 
And  then  return  lamenting  to  my  love. — 
Shine  out,  fair  sun,  till  I  have  bought  a  glass, 
That  I  may  see  my  shadow  as  I  pass. 


SHAKESPEARE 


13257 


J 


Romeo 


SCENES  FROM  THE  TRAGEDIES 

THE  PARTING  OF  ROMEO  AND  JULIET 
Scene:  Juliet's  Chamber.      Enter  Romeo  and  Juliet 

ULIET  —  Wilt  thou  be  gone  ?  it  is  not  yet  near  day: 
It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark, 
That  pierced  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine  ear; 
Nightly  she  sings  on  yon  pomegranate-tree: 
Believe  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale. 
It  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn. 
No  nightingale :  look,  love,  what  envious  streaks 
Do  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  east. 
Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain-tops: 
I  must  be  gone  and  live,  or  stay  and  die. 

Juliet —      Yon  light  is  not  daylight:  I  know  it,  I; 
It  is  some  meteor  that  the  sun  exhales. 
To  be  to  thee  this  night  a  torch-bearer, 
And  light  thee  on  thy  way  to  Mantua: 
Therefore,  stay  yet;  thou  need'st  not  to  be  gone, 

Romeo —       Let  me  be  ta'en,  let  me  be  put  to  death; 
I  am  content,  so  thou  wilt  have  it  so. 
I'll  say,  yon  gray  is  not  the  morning's  eye, 
'Tis  but  the  pale  reflex  of  Cynthia's  bow; 
Nor  that  is  not  the  lark,  whose  notes  do  beat 
The  vaulty  heaven  so  high  above  our  heads: 
I  have  more  care  to  stay,  than  will  to  go;  — 
Come,  death,  and  welcome:  Juliet  wills  it  so  — 
How  is  't,  my  soul  ?     Let's  talk,  it  is  not  day. 

Juliet —      It  is,  it  is:  hie  hence,  be  gone,  away! 
It  is  the  lark  that  sings  so  out  of  tune, 
Straining  harsh  discords,  and  unpleasing  sharps. 
Some  say  the  lark  makes  sweet  division; 
This  doth  not  so,  for  she  divideth  us: 
Some  say  the  lark  and  loathed  toad  change  eyes; 
Oh !   now  I  would  they  had  changed  voices  too. 
Since  arm  from  arm  that  voice  doth  us  affrdy. 
Hunting  thee  hence  with  hunts-up  to  the  day. 
Oh!  now  be  gone :  more  light  and  light  it  grows. 

Romeo —      More  light  and  light,  more  dark  and  dark  our  woes. 


13258 


A 


SHAKESPEARE 

ANTONY'S   SPEECH    OVER   CESAR'S   BODY 
From  <  Julius  Caesar  > 

Scene:   The  Rotnan  Forum. 

NTONY  — 

Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears: 

I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them, 

The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones: 

So  let  it  be  with  Cassar.     The  noble  Brutus 

Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious: 

If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault. 

And  grievously  hath  Cassar  answered  it. 

Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest 

(For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man; 

So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men), 

Come  I  to  speak  in  Cassar's  funeral. 

He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me: 

But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious; 

And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 

He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 

Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  coffers  fill. 

Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious  ? 

When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept; 

Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff: 

Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious; 

And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 

You  all  did  see,  that  on  the  Lupercal 

I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown. 

Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.     Was  this  ambition  ? 

Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious; 

And  sure,  he  is  an  honorable  man. 

I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke. 

But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 

You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  cause ; 

What  cause  withholds  you,  then,  to  mourn  for  him  ? 

O  judgment!  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts. 

And  men  have  lost  their  reason. —  Bear  with  me: 

My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Ceesar, 

And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me.     .     .     . 

But  yesterday,  the  word  of  Caesar  might 

Have  stood  against  the  world :  now  lies  he  there. 

And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 


i 


SHAKETSPEARE  13259 

0  masters!  if  I  were  disposed  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wrong, 
Who,  you  all  know,  are  honorable  men. 

I  will  not  do  them  wrong;  I  rather  choose 

To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself,  and  you. 

Than  I  will  wrong  such  honorable  men. 

But  here's  a  parchment  with  the  seal  of  Caesar; 

I  found  it  in  his  closet:  'tis  his  will. 

Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament 

(Which,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  read), 

And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  wounds. 

And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood; 

Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 

And.  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills, 

Bequeathing  it  as  a  rich  legacy 

Unto  their  issue. 
Fourth  Citizen  — 

We'll  hear  the  will.     Read  it,  Mark  Antony. 
All —  The  will,  the  will !  we  will  hear  Caesar's  will. 

Antony —     Have  patience,  gentle  friends;  I  must  not  read  it: 

It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  loved  you. 

You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men, 

And  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 

It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you  mad. 

'Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs; 

For  if  you  should,  oh,  what  would  come  of  it  ?    .     .     . 

If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now. 

You  all  do  know  this  mantle:  I  remember 

The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on; 

'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent, 

That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii. 

Look!  in  this  place  ran  Cassius's  dagger  through; 

See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made : 

Through  this  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabbed; 

And  as  he  plucked  his  cursed  steel  away, 

Mark  how  the  blood  of  Cassar  followed  it. 

As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolved 

If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knocked,  or  no: 

For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel; 

Judge,  O  you  gods,  how  dearly  Caesar  loved  him! 

This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all ; 

For  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab, 

Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms, 


^3260 


SHAKESPEARE 


Quite  vanquished  him:    then  burst  his  mighty  heart; 

And  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face, 

Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statue, 

Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  Caesar  fell. 

Oh,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen! 

Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down. 

Whilst  bloody  treason  flourished  over  us. 

Oh,  now  you  weep ;   and  I  perceive  you  feel 

The  dint  of  pity:  these  are  gracious  drops. 

Kind  souls!     What!  weep  you  when  you  but  behold 

Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?     Look  you  here. 

Here  is  himself,  marred,  as  you  see,  with  traitors. 

First  Citizen  —  O  piteous  spectacle ! 

Second  Citizen  —  O  noble  Cassar! 

Third  Citizen  —  O  woeful  day! 

Fourth  Citizen  —  O  traitors!  villains! 

First  Citizen  —  O  most  bloody  sight! 

All — We  will  be  revenged.    Revenge!  about — seek — burn  —  fire  — 
kill  —  slay!  —  let  not  a  traitor  live.  [They  are  rushing  out. 

Antony  —  Stay,  countrymen. 

First  Citizen  —  Peace  there !  hear  the  noble  Antony. 

Second  Citizen  —  We'll  hear  him,  we'll  follow  him,  we'll  die  with  him. 

Antony  —  Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir  you  up 
To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny. 
They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honorable: 
What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas!  I  know  not. 
That  made  them  do  it;   they  are  wise  and  honorable, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 
I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts: 
I  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is, 
But  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain  blunt  man, 
.  That  love  my  friend;  and  that  they  know  full  well 
That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him. 
For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth, 
Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech. 
To  stir  men's  blood:   I  only  speak  right  on; 
I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know. 
Show  you  sweet  Caesar's  wounds,  poor,  poor  dumb  mouths, 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me :  but  were  I  Brutus, 
And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Caesar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 

All—      We'll  mutiny. 


SHAKESPEARE  13261 

CLEOPATRA  ON  THE  CYDNUS 

From  (Antony  and  Cleopatra) 

ENOBARBUS  —     The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnish'd  throne, 
Burn'd  on  the  water.      The  poop  was  beaten  gold; 
Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed  that 
The    winds    were    love-sick    with    them.      The    oars 

were  silver, 
Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and  made 
The  water  which  they  beat  to  follow  faster, 
As  amorous  of  their  strokes.      For  her  own  person, 
It  beggar'd  all  description:  she  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion  —  cloth-of-gold  of  tissue  — 
O'er-picturing  that  Venus  where  we  see 
The  fancy  outwork  nature.     On  each  side  her 
Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 
With  divers-color'd  fans,  whose  wind  did  seem 
To  glow  the  delicate  cheeks  which  they  did  cool, 
And  what  they  undid  did. 

A  grip  pa  —  O,  rare  for  Antony! 

E:iobarbus  —  Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereides, 

So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes. 
And  made  their  bends  adornings.      At  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers;  the  silken  tackle 
Swell  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft  hands, 
That  yarely  frame  the  ofhce.     From  the  barge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs.      The  city  cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her;  and  Antony 
Enthron'd  i'  the  market-place,  did  sit  alone, 
Whistling  to  the  air,  which,  but  for  vacancy, 
Had  gone  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra  too 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature. 

A  grip  pa  —  Rare  Egyptian! 

Enoharhus  —  Upon  her  landing,  Antony  sent  to  her, 

Invited  her  to  supper.     She  replied. 
It  should  be  better  he  became  her  guest; 
Which  she  entreated.      Our  courteous  Antony, 
Whom  ne'er  the  word  of  «No))  woman  heard  speak. 
Being  barber'd  ten  times  o'er,  goes  to  the  feast. 
And  for  his  ordinary  pays  his  heart 
For  what  his  eyes  eat  only. 

Agrippa  —  Royal  wench! 

She  made  great  Ca?sar  lay  his  sword  to  bed. 
He  plough'd  her,  and  she  cropp'd. 


13262  SHAKESPEARE 

Enobarbus  —  I  saw  her  once 

Hop  forty  paces  through  the  public  street; 
And  having  lost  her  breath,  she  spoke,  and  panted. 
That  she  did  make  defect  perfection. 
And,  breathless,  power  breathe  forth. 
Now  Antony  must  leave  her  utterly. 
Never;  he  will  not. 

Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety. 


Mcccenas  — 
Enobarbus  — 


c 


THE  DEATH  OF  CLEOPATRA 

i.EOPATRA  —  Now,  Charmian! 

Show  me,  my  women,  like  a  queen.     Go  fetch 
My  best  attires;  I  am  again  for  Cydnus 
To  meet  Mark  Antony.      Sirrah,  Iras,  go. 
Now,   noble   Charmian,   we'll  dispatch  indeed; 
And,  when  thou  hast  done  this  chare,  I'll  give  thee 

leave 
To  play  till  doomsday.     Bring  our  crown  and  all. 
Wherefore's  this  noise? 

[Exit  Iras.     A  noise  within.] 

[Enter  a  Guardsman.] 

Here  is  a  rural  fellow 
That  will  not  be  deni'd  your  Highness'  presence. 
He  brings  you  figs. 
Cleopatra  —  Let  him  come  in. 

[Exit  Guardsman.] 

What  poor  an  instrument 
May  do  a  noble  deed!      He  brings  me  liberty. 
My  resolution's  plac'd,  and  I  have  nothing 
Of  woman  in  me;  now  from  head  to  foot 
I  am  marble-constant;  now  the  fleeting  moon 
No  planet  is  of  mine. 

[Re-enter  Guardsman,  with  Clown  bringing  in  a  basket.] 


J 

1 
4 


Guardsman  — 


Guardsman  - 
Cleopatra  — 


This  is  the  man. 


Avoid,  and  leave  him. 


[Exit  Guardsman.] 


SHAKESPEARE 


13263 


Clown  — 


Cleopatra 
Clown  — 


Cleopatra 
Clown 


Cleopatra 

Clown  — 

Cleopatra 
Clown  — 


Cleopatra 
Clown  — 

Cleopatra 

Clown  — 


Cleopatra 
Clown  — 


Cleopatra  — 


Hast  thou  the  pretty  worm  of  Nilus  there, 

That  kills  and  pains  not? 

Truly,  I  have  him;  but  I  would  not  be  the  party 
that  should  desire  you  to  touch  him,  for  his  biting 
is  immortal;  those  that  do  die  of  it  do  seldom  or 
never  recover. 

Remember'st  thou  any  that  have  died  on't? 

Very  many,  men  and  women  too.  I  heard  of  one 
of  them  no  longer  than  yesterday;  a  very  honest 
woman,  but  something  given  to  lie,  as  a  woman 
should  not  do,  but  in  the  way  of  honesty;  how  she 
died  of  the  biting  of  it,  what  pain  she  felt;  truly,  she 
makes  a  very  good  report  o'  the  worm.  But  he  that 
will  believe  all  that  they  say,  shall  never  be  saved 
by  half  that  they  do.  But  this  is  most  falliable, 
the  worm's  an  odd  worm. 

Get  thee  hence;  farewell. 

I  wish  you  all  joy  of  the  worm. 

[Setting  down  his  basket.] 

Farewell. 

You  must  think  this,  look  you,  that  the  worm  will 
do  his  kind. 

Ay,  ay;  farewell. 

Look  you,  the  worm  is  not  to  be  trusted  but  in  the 
keeping  of  wise  people;  for,  indeed,  there  is  no 
goodness  in  the  worm. 

Take  thou  no  care;  it  shall  be  heeded. 

Very  good.  Give  it  nothing,  I  pray  you,  for  it  is 
not  worth  the  feeding. 

Will  it  eat  me? 

You  must  not  think  I  am  so  simple  but  I  know  the 
devil  himself  will  not  eat  a  woman.  I  know  that  a 
woman  is  a  dish  for  the  gods,  if  the  devil  dress  her 
not.  But,  truly,  these  same  whoreson  devils 
do  the  gods  great  harm  in  their  women;  for  in 
every  ten  that  they  make,  the  devils  mar  five. 

Well,  get  thee  gone;  farewell. 

Yes,  forsooth;  I  wish  you  joy  o'  the  worm. 


[Exit.] 


[Re-enter  Iras  with  a  robe,  crown,  etc.] 

Give  me  my  robe,  put  on  my  crown;  I  have 
Immortal  longings  in  me.      Now  no  more 
The  juice  of  Egypt's  grape  shall  moist  this  lip. 


13264  SHAKESPEARE 

Yare,  yare,  good  Iras;  quick.      Methinks  I  hear 

Antony  call;  I  see  him  rouse  himself 

To  praise  my  noble  act;  I  hear  him  mock 

The  luck  of  Caesar,  which  the  gods  give  men 

To  excuse  their  after  wrath.      Husband,  I  come! 

Now  to  that  name  my  courage  prove  my  title! 

I  am  fire  and  air;  my  other  elements 

I  give  to  baser  life.      So;  have  you  done? 

Come  then,  and  take  the  last  warmth  of  my  lips. 

Farewell,  kind  Charmian;  Iras,  long  farewell. 

[Kisises  them.     Iras  Jails  and  dies.] 

Have  I  the  aspic  in  my  lips?      Dost  fall? 
If  thou  and  nature  can  so  gently  part, 
The  stroke  of  death  is  as  a  lover's  pinch, 
Which  hurts,  and  is  desir'd.      Dost  thou  lie  still? 
If  thus  thou  vanishest,  thou  tell'st  the  world 
.  It  is  not  worth  leave-taking. 

Charmian  —  Dissolve,  thick  cloud,  and  rain;  that  I  may  say 

The  gods  themselves  do  weep! 

Cleopatra  —  This  proves  me  base. 

If  she  first  meet  the  curled  Antony, 
He'll  make  demand  of  her,  and  spend  that  kiss 
Which   is   my  heaven   to  have. "    Come,  thou  mortal 
wretch, 

\To  an  asp,  which  she  applies  to  her  breast.] 

With  thy  sharp  teeth  this  knot  intrinsicate 
Of  life  at  once  untie.      Poor  venomous  fool, 
Be  angry,  and  dispatch.      O,  couldst  thou  speak, 
That  I  might  hear  thee  call  great  Cassar  ass 
Unpolicied! 

Charmian  —  O  eastern  star! 

Cleopatra  —  Peace,  peace! 

Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby  at  my  breast, 
That  sucks  the  nurse  asleep? 

Charmian  —  O,   break!    0,   break! 

Cleopatra  —  As  sweet  as  balm,  as  soft  as  air,  as  gentle,  — 

O  Antony!  —  Nay,  I  will  take  thee  too: 


I 


{Applying  another  asp  to  her  arm.] 

What  should  I  stay 

[Dies.] 


SHAKESPEARE 


13264a 


Charmian 


In  this  vile  world?     So,  fare  thee  well! 

Now  boast  thee,  death,  in  thy  possession  lies 

A  lass  unparallel'd.      Downy  windows,  close; 

And  golden  Phoebus  never  be  beheld 

Of  eyes  again  so  royal!     Your  crown's  awry; 

I'll  mend  it,  and  then  play 

{Enter  the  Guard,  rushing  in.] 

Where's  the  Queen? 


I.  Guardsman  — 

Charmian  — 

I.  Guardsman  —      Caesar  hath  sent  — 

Charmian  — 


Speak  softly,  wake  her  not. 


1.  Guardsman 

2.  Guardsman 
I.  Guardsman 
Charmian  — 


Too  slow  a  messenger. 

{Applies  an  asp.] 

0,  come  apace,  dispatch!     I  partly  feel  thee. 
Approach,  ho!     All's  not  well;  Caesar's  beguil'd. 
There's  Dolabella  sent  from  Csesar;  call  him. 
What  work  is  here!     Charmian,  is  this  well  done? 
It  is  well  done,  and  fitting  for  a  princess 
Descended  of  so  many  royal  kings. 
Ah,  soldier!  {Dies. 


THE  OPENING  SCENE  OF  (HAMLET) 
Elsinore.  ^  A  platform  before  the  castle. 

[Francisco  at  his  post.     Enter  to  him  Bernardo.] 


B 


ERNARDO  —     Who's  there? 

Francisco  —     Nay,  answer  me.     Stand,  and  unfold  yourself. 
Bernardo  —     Long  live  the  king! 


Francesco  — 
Bernardo  — 
Francisco  — 
Bernardo  — 
Francisco  — 

Bernardo  — 
Francisco  — 
Bernardo  — 


Francisco  — 
Horatio  — 


Bernardo? 

He. 

You  come  most  carefully  upon  your  hour. 

'Tis  now  struck  twelve.      Get  thee  to  bed,  Francisco. 

For  this  relief  much  thanks.      'Tis  bitter  cold, 

And  I  am  sick  at  heart. 

Have  you  had  quiet  guard? 

Not  a  mouse  stirring. 
Well,  good-night. 

If  you  do  meet  Horatio  and  Marcellus, 
The  rivals  of  my  watch,  bid  them  make  haste. 

{Enter  Horatio  and  Marcellus.] 

I  think  I  hear  them.     Stand!     Who's  there? 
Friends  to  this  ground. 


13264b 


SHAKESPEARE 


Marcellus  —^ 

Francisco  —  Give  you  gpod-night. 

Marcellus  — 


Francisco  — 


Marcellus  - 
Bernardo  — 

Uoralio  — 
Bernardo  — 
Horatio  — 
Bernardo  — 
Marcellus  - 


Horatio  — 
Bernardo 


Horatio  — 
Bernardo  — 


Marcellus 
Bernardo  - 
Marcellus 
Bernardo  - 
Horatio  — 
Bernardo  - 
Marcellus 


Who  hath  reliev'd  you? 
Give  you  good-night. 


And  liegemen  to  the    Dane. 
0,  farewell,  honest  soldier. 
Berna'rdo  has  my  place. 

[Exit.] 


Holla!    Bernardo! 


Say, 


What,  is  Horatio  there? 

A  piece  of  him. 
Welcome,   Horatio;  welcome,  good   Marcellus. 
What,  has  this  thing  appear'd  again  to-night? 
I  have  seen  nothing. 
Horatio  says  'tis  but  our  fantasy, 
And  will  not  let  belief  take  hold  of  him 
Touching  this  dreaded  sight,  twice  seen  of  us; 
Therefore  I  have  entreated  him  along 
With  us,  to  watch  the  minutes  of  this  night, 
That  if  again  this  apparition  come. 
He  may  approve  our  eyes  and  speak  to  it. 
Tush,  tush,  'twill  not  appear. 

Sit  down  a  while, 
And  let  us  once  again  assail  your  ears. 
That  are  so  fortified  against  our  story. 
What  we  two  nights  have  seen. 

Well,  sit  we  down, 
And  let  us  hear  Bernardo  speak  of  this. 
Last  night  of  all, 

When  yond  same  star  that's  westward  from  the  pole 
Had  made  his  course  to  illume  that  part  of  heaven 
Where  now  it  bvirns,  Marcellus  and  myself, 
The  bell  then  beating  one,  — 

[Enter  the  Ghost.] 

Peace,  break  thee  off!     Look,  where  it  comes  again! 
In  the  same  figure,  like  the  King  that's  dead. 
Thou  art  a  scholar;  speak  to  it,  Horatio. 
Looks  it  not  like  the  King?      Mark  it,  Horatio. 
Most  like;  it  harrows  me  with  fear  and  wonder. 
It  would  be  spoke  to. 

Question   it,    Horatio. 


SHAKESPEARE 


13264c 


Horalio  — 


Marcellus  - 
Bernardo  — 
Horatio  — 


What  art  thou  that  usurp'st  this  time  of  night, 

Together  with  that  fair  and  warlike  form 

In  which  the  majesty  of  buried  Denmark 

Did  sometimes  march?     By  heaven  I  charge  thee, 

speak! 
It  is  offended. 

See,  it  stalks  away! 
Stay!     Speak,  speak!     I  charge  thee,  speak! 


[Exit  Ghost.] 


Marcellus 
Bernardo  - 


Horatio  — 


Marcellus  - 
Horalio  — 


Marcellus  — 
Horatio  — 

Marcellus  — 


Horatio  — 


*Tis  gone,  and  will  not  answer. 

How  now,  Horatio!  you  tremble  and  look  pale. 

Is  not  this  something  more  than  fantasy? 

What  think  you  on't? 

Before  my  God,  I  might  not  this  believe 

Without  the  sensible  and  true  avouch 

Of  mine  own  eyes. 

Is  it  not  like  the  King? 
As  thou  art  to  thyself 
Such  was  the  very  armor  he  had  on 
When  he  the  ambitious  Norway  combated. 
So  frown'd  he  once,  when,  in  an  angry  parle, 
He  smote  the  sledded  Polacks  on  the  ice. 
'Tis  strange. 

Thus  twice  before,  and  jump  at  this  dead  hour, 
With  martial  stalk  hath  he  gone  by  our  watch. 
In  what  particular  thought  to  work  I  know  not; 
But,  in  the  gross  and  scope  of  my  opinion, 
This  bodes  some  strange  eruption  to  our  state. 
Good  now,  sit  down,  and  tell  me,  he  that  knows. 
Why  this  same  strict  and  most  observant  watch 
So  nightly  toils  the  subject  of  the  land. 
And  why  such  daily  cast  of  brazen  cannon, 
And  foreign  mart  for  implements  of  war; 
Why  such  impress  of  shipwrights,  whose  sore  task 
Does  not  divide  the  Sunday  from  the  week. 
What  might  be  toward,  that  this  sweaty  haste 
Doth  make  the  night  joint-laborer  with  the  day, 
W^ho  is't  that  can  inform  me? 

That  can  I; 
At  least,  the  whisper  goes  so.      Our  last  king, 
Whose  image  even  but  now  appear'd  to  us, 
Was,  as  you  know,  by  Fortinbras  of  Norway, 
Thereto  prick'd  on  by  a  most  emulate  pride. 


I3264d 


SHAKESPEARE 


Bernardo 


Horatio 


Dar'd  to  the  combat;  in  which  our  valiant  Hamlet  — ^ 

For  so  this  side  of  our  known  world  esteem'd  him  — 

Did  slay  this  Fortinbras;  who,  by  a  seal'd  compact, 

Well  ratified  by  law  and  heraldry, 

Did  forfeit,  with  his  life,  all  those  his  lands 

Which  he  stood  seiz'd  on,  to  the  conqueror; 

Against  the  which,  a  moiety  competent 

Was  gaged  by  our  king;  which  had  return'd 

To  the  inheritance  of  Fortinbras,  ' 

Had  he  been  vanquisher;  as,  by  the  same  covenant, 

And  carriage  of  the  article  design'd. 

His  fell  to  Hamlet.      Now,  sir,  young  Fortinbras, 

Of  unimproved  mettle  hot  and  full. 

Hath  in  the  skirts  of  Norway  here  and  there 

Shark'd  up  a  list  of  landless  resolutes, 

For  food  and  diet,  to  some  enterprise 

That  -hath  a  stomach  in't;  which  is  no  other  — 

As  it  doth  well  appear  unto  our  state  — 

But  to  recover  of  us,  by  strong  hand 

And  terms  compulsative,  those  foresaid  lands 

So  by  his  father  lost;  and  this,  I  take  it. 

Is  the  main  motive  of  our  preparations. 

The  source  of  this  our  watch,  and  the  chief  head 

Of  this  post-haste  and  romage  in  the  land. 

I  think  it  be  no  other  but  e'en  so. 

Well  may  it  sort  that  this  portentous  figure 

Comes  armed  through  our  watch,  so  like  the  King 

That  was  and  is  the  question  of  these  wars. 

A  mote  it  is  to  trouble  the  mind's  eye. 

In  the  most  high  and  palmy  state  of  Rome, 

A  little  ere  the  mightiest  Julius  fell, 

The  graves  stood  tenantless  and  the  sheeted  dead 

Did  squeak  and  gibber  in  the  Roman  streets. 


As  stars  with  trains  of  fire  and  dews  of  blood, 

Disasters  in  the  sun;  and  the  moist  star 

Upon  whose  influence  Neptune's  empire  stands 

Was  sick  almost  to  doomsday  with  eclipse. 

And  even  the  like  precurse  of  fierce  events 

As  harbingers  preceding  still  the  fates 

And  prologue  to  the  omen  coming  on, 

Have  heaven  and  earth  together  demonstrated 

Unto  our  climatures  and  countrymen. 

[Re-enter  Ghost.] 


SHAKESPEARE 


132646 


Marcellus  - 
Horatio  — 
Bernardo  — 
Horatio  — 
Marcellus  - 


Bernardo  — 
Horatio  — 


Marcellus  — 


Horatio  — 


But  soft,  behold!      Lo,  where  it  comes  again! 

I'll  cross  it,  though  it  blast  me.      Stay,  illusion! 

If  thou  hast  any  sound,  or  use  of  voice, 

Speak  to  me; 

If  there  be  any  good  thing  to  be  done 

That  may  to  thee  do  ease  and  grace  to  me, 

Speak  to  me; 

If  thou  art  privy  to  thy  country's  fate. 

Which,  happily,  foreknowing  may  avoid, 

0  speak! 

Or  if  thou  hast  uphoarded  in  thy  life 

Extorted  treasure  in  the  womb  of  earth, 

For  which,  they  say,  you  spirits  oft  walk  in  death, 

Speak  of  it;  stay,  and  speak!  {Cock  crows.] 

Stop  it,  Marcellus. 
Shall  I  strike  at  it  with  my  partisan? 
Do,  if  it  will  not  stand. 

'Tis    here! 
'Tis  here! 
'Tis  gone!  [Exit  Ghost.] 

We  do  it  wrong,  being  so  majestical, 
To  oflfer  it  the  show  of  violence; 
For  it  is,  as  the  air,  invulnerable. 
And  our  vain  blows  malicious  mockery. 
It  was  about  to  speak,  when  the  cock  crew. 
And  then  it  started  like  a  guilty  thing 
Upon  a  fearful  summons.     I  have  heard, 
The  cock,  that  is  the  trumpet  to  the  morn, 
Doth  with  his  lofty  and  shrill-sounding  throat 
Awake  the  god  of  day;  and,  at  his  warning, 
Whether  in  sea  or  fire,  in  earth  or  air. 
The  extravagant  and  erring  spirit  hies 
To  his  confine;  and  of  the  truth  herein 
This  present  object  made  probation. 
It  faded  on  the  crowing  of  the  cock. 
Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
The  bird  of  dawning  singcth  all  night  long; 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  can  walk  abroad; 
The  nights  are  wholesome;  then  no  planets  strike. 
No  fairy  takes,  nor  witch  hath  power  to  charm, 
So  hallow'd  and  so  gracious  is  the  time. 
So  have  I  heard  and  do  in  part  believe  it. 
But,  look,  the  morn,  in  russet  mantle  clad. 
Walks  o'er  the  dew  of  yon  high  eastern  hill. 


13264f  SHAKESPEARE 

Break  we  our  watch  up;  and,  by  my  advice, 
Let  us  impart  what  we  have  seen  to-night 
Unto  young   Hamlet;  for,  upon  my  Hfe, 
This  spirit,  dumb  to  us,  will  speak  to  him. 
Do  you  consent  we  shall  acquaint  him  with  it, 
As  needful  in  our  loves,  fitting  our  duty? 
Marcellus  —  Let's  do't,  I  pray;   and  I  this  morning  know 

Where  we  shall  find  him  most  conveniently. 

[Exeunt.\ 


H 


HAMLET  MEDITATES  SUICIDE 

AMLET  —  To  be,  or  not  to  be:  that  is  the  question. 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles. 
And  by  opposing  end  them.      To  die;  to  sleep; 
No  more;  and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to.      'Tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wish'd.      To  die;  to  sleep;  — 
To  sleep?     Perchance  to  dream!     Ay,  there's  the  rub; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffl'd  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause.     There's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life. 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time. 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely, 
The  pangs  of  dispriz'd  love,  the  law's  delay. 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes. 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin?     Who  would  fardels  bear. 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life, 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, 
The  undiscovered  country  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveler  returns,  puzzles  the  will 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought. 
And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment 
With  this  regard  their  currents  turn  awry. 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


SHAKESPEARE 


I3264g 


K 


HAMLET'S  REVENGE  ACCOMPLISHED 

ING  —  Give  them  the  foils,  young  Osric.      Cousin  Hamlet, 
You  know  the  wager? 
Hamlet  —  Very  well,  my  lord. 

Your  Grace  hath  laid  the  odds  o'  the  weaker  side. 

I  do  not  fear  it,  I  have  seen  you  both; 

But  since  he  is  better'd,  we  have  therefore  odds. 

This  is  too  heavy,  let  me  see  another. 

This  likes  me  well.      These  foils  have  all  a  length? 


King  — 

Laertes  — 
Hamlet  — 


Osric  — 
King  — 


Hamlet  - 
Laertes  - 
Hamlet  - 
Laertes  - 
Hamlet  - 
Osric  — 
Laertes  - 
King  — 


Hamlet  — 

Laertes  — 
King  — 
Oueen  — 


Hamlet  — 


[They  prepare  to  play.] 

Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Set  me  the  stoups  of  wine  upon  that  table. 

If  Hamlet  give  the  first  or  second  hit, 

Or  quit  in  answer  of  the  third  exchange. 

Let  all  the  battlements  their  ordnance  fire. 

The  King  shall  drink  to  Hamlet's  better  breath, 

And  in  the  cup  an  union  shall  he  throw, 

Richer  than  that  which  four  successive  kings 

In  Denmark's  crown  have  worn.      Give  me  the  cups, 

And  let  the  kettle  to  the  trumpets  speak, 

The  trumpet  to  the  ca'nnoneer  without, 

The  cannons  to  the  heavens,  the  heaven  to  earth, 

((Now  the  King  drinks  to  Hamlet.))     Come,  begin; 

And  you,  the  judges,  bear  a  wary  eye. 

Come  on,  sir. 

Come,  my  lord. 

One. 

No. 


[They  play.] 


Judgment. 


A  hit,  a  very  palpable  hit. 

Well;    again. 
Stay,  give  mc  drink.      Hamlet,  this  pearl  is  thine; 
Here's  thy  health!     Give  him  the  cup. 

[Trumpets  sound,  and  shot  goes  ojff  within.] 

I'll  play  this  bout  first;  set  it  by  a  while. 
Come.      [They  play.]     Another  hit;  what  say  you? 
A  touch,  a  touch,  I  do  confess. 
Our  son  shall  win. 

He's  fat,  and  scant  of  breath. 
Here,  Hamlet,  take  my  napkin,  rub  thy  brows. 
The  Queen  carouses  to  thy  fortune,  Hamlet. 
Good  madam! 


1326411 


SHAKESPEARE 


King  —  Gertrude,  do  not  drink. 

Queen  —        I  will,  my  lord;  I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 

King  [aside]  —  It  is  the  poison'd  cup;  it  is  too  late. 

Hamlet  —     I  dare  not  drink  yet,  madam;  by  and  by. 

Queen  —        Come,  let  me  wipe  thy  face. 

Laertes  —      My  lord,  I'll  hit  him  now. 

King —  I  do  not  think't. 

Laertes  [aside]  —  And  yet  'tis  almost  'gainst  my  conscience. 

Hamlet  —      Come,  for  the  third,  Laertes;  you  but  dally. 

I  pray  you,  pass  with  your  best  violence. 

I  am  afeard  you  make  a  wanton  of  me. 
Laertes  —      Say   you   so?      Come   on.  [They  play. 

Osric  —  Nothing,  neither  way. 

Laertes  —      Have  at  you  now! 

[Laertes  wounds  Hamlet;  then,  in  scuffling,  they  change  rapiers.] 

King  —  Part  them;  they  are  incens'd. 

Hamlet  —      Nay,  come,  again. 

[Hamlet  wounds  Laertes.      The  Queen  falls.] 


4 


i 

I 


Osric  — 
Horatio  - 
Osric  — 
Laertes  - 

Hamlet  - 
King  — 
Queen  — 

Hamlet  - 

Laertes  - 


Hamlet  — 

All  — 
King  — 


Look  to  the  Queen  there!      Ho! 
They  bleed  on  both  sides.     How  is't,  my  lord! 
How  is't,  Laertes? 

Why,  as  a  woodcock  to  mine  own  springe,  Osric; 
I  am  justly  kill'd  with  mine  own  treachery. 
How  does  the  Queen? 

She  swounds  to  see  them  bleed. 
No,  no,  the  drink,  the  drink,  —  O  my  dear  Hamlet,  — 


[Dies.] 


The  drink,  the  drink!     I  am  poison'd. 

0  villainy!     Ho!  let  the  door  be  lock'd: 
Treachery!     Seek  it  out. 

It  is  here,  Hamlet.      Hamlet,  thou  art  slain. 
No  medicine  in  the  world  can  do  thee  good; 
In  thee  there  is  not  half  an  hour  of  life. 
The  treacherous  instrument  is  in  thy  hand, 
Unbated  and  envenom'd.      The  foul  practice 
Hath  turn'd  itself  on  me.      Lo,  here  I  lie. 
Never  to  rise  again.     Thy  mother's  poison'd. 

1  can  no  more:  —  the  King,  the  King's  to  blame. 
The  point  envenom'd  too! 

Then,  venom,  to  thy  work.  [Hurts  the  King.] 

Treason!  treason! 

O,  yet  defend  me,  friends;  I  am  but  hurt. 


SHAKESPEARE 


132641 


Hamlet  — 


Laertes  — 


Hamlet  — 


Horatio  — 


Hamlei  — 


Osric 


Hamlet  — 


Here,  thou  incestuous,  murderous,  damned  Dane, 

Drink  off  this  potion!      Is  thy  union  here? 

Follow  my  mother  1  [King  dies. 

He  is  justly  served; 
It  is  a  poison  temper'd  by  himself. 
Exchange  forgiveness  with  me,  noble  Hamlet. 
Mine  and  my  father's  death  come  not  upon  thee, 
Nor  thine  on  me!  [Dies. 

Heaven  make  thee  free  of  it!     I  follow  thee. 
I  am  dead,  Horatio.      Wretched  queen,  adieu! 
You  that  look  pale  and  tremble  at  this  chance, 
That  are  but  mutes  or  audience  to  this  act. 
Had  I  but  time  —  as  this  fell  sergeant,  Death, 
Is  strict  in  his  arrest  —  O,  I  could  tell  you  — 
But  let  it  be.     Horatio,  I  am  dead; 
Thou  liv'st.     Report  me  and  my  cause  aright 
To  the  unsatisfied. 

Never  believe  it. 
I  am  more  an  antique  Roman  than  a  Dane; 
Here's  yet  some  liquor  left. 

As  thou'rt  a  man, 
Give  me  the  cup.     Let  go!     By  heaven,  I'll  have't! 

0  good  Horatio,  what  a  wounded  name, 

Things  standing  thus  unknown,  shall  live  behind  me! 

If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart, 

Absent  thee  from  felicity  a  while 

And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain 

To  tell  my  story.  [March  afar  ojf,  and  shot  within. 

What  warlike  noise  is  this? 
Young  Fortinbras,  with  conquest  come  from  Poland, 
To  the  ambassadors  of  England  gives 
This  warlike  volley. 

O,  I  die,  Horatio; 
The  potent  poison  quite  o'er-crows  my  spirit. 

1  cannot  live  to  hear  the  news  from  England, 
But  I  do  prophesy  the  election  lights 

On  Fortinbras;  he  has  my  dying  voice. 

So  tell  him,  with  the  occurrents,  more  and  less. 

Which  have  solicited  —  The  rest  is  silence.  [Dies.] 


1 32  64  j  SHAKESPEARE 

OTHELLO'S  STORY   OF  HIS  WOOING 

OTHELLO  —  Her  father  lov'd  me;  oft  invited  me;  I 

Still  question'd  me  the  story  of  my  life  I 

From  year  to  year,  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes, 
That  I  have  pass'd.  , 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days, 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it; 
Wherein  I  spoke  of  most  disastrous  chances. 
Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field. 
Of  hair-breadth  scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly  breach, 
Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe 
And  sold  to  slavery,  of  my  redemption  thence 
And  portance  in  my  travel's  history; 
Wherein  of  antres  vast  and  deserts  idle, 
Rough  quarries,  rocks,  and  hills  whose  heads  touch  heaven, 
It  was  my  hint  to  speak,  —  such  was  my  process,  — 
And  of  the  Cannibals  that  each  other  eat, 
The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.     These  to  hear 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline; 
But  still  the  house-affairs  would  draw  her  thence, 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  dispatch, 
She'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse:  which  I  observing. 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour,  and  found  good  means 
To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart 
That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard. 
But  not  intentively.      I  did  consent, 
And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears 
When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 
That  my  youth  suffer'd.      My  story  being  done, 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs. 
She  swore,  in  faith,  'twas  strange,  'twas  passing  strange, 
'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful. 
She  wish'd  she  had  not  heard  it;  yet  she  wish'd 
That  Heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man.    She  thank'd  me. 
And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  lov'd  her, 
I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story. 
And  that  would  woo  her.     Upon  this  hint  I  spake; 
She  lov'd  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd, 
And  I  lov'd  her  that  she  did  pity  them. 
This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  us'd. 
Here  comes  the  lady;  let  her  witness  it. 


SHAKESPEARE 


13264k 


o 


THE  MURDER  OF  DESDEMONA 
From  (Othello.) 

A  bedchamber  in  the  castle.      Desdemona  in  bed  asleep. 

[Enter  Othello  with  a  light.] 

THELLO  —   It  is  the  cause,  it  is  the  cause,  my  soul,  — 

Let  me  not  name  it  to  you,  you  chaste  stars!  — 

It  is  the  cause.      Yet  I'll  not  shed  her  blood, 

Nor  scar  that  whiter  skin  of  hers  than  snow, 

And  smooth  as  monumental  alabaster. 

Yet  she  must  die,  else  she'll  betray  more  men. 

Put  out  the  light,  and  then  put  out  the  light. 

If  I  quench  thee,  thou  flaming  minister, 

I  can  again  thy  former  light  restore, 

Should  I  repent  me;  but  once  put  out  thy  light, 

Thou  cunning'st  pattern  of  excelling  nature, 

I  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  heat 

That  can  thy  light  relume.      When  I  have  pluck'd  tl-.e 

rose 
I  cannot  give  it  vital  growth  again, 
It  needs  must  wither;  I'll  smell  it  on  the  tree. 

[Kisses  her.] 

Oh,  balmy  breath,  that  dost  almost  persuade 
Justice  to  break  her  sword!     One  more,  one  more. 
Be  thus  when  thou  art  dead,  and  I  will  kill  thee 
And  love  thee  after.     One  more,  and  that's  the  last; 
So  sweet  was  ne'er  so  fatal.     I  must  weep. 
But  they  are  cruel  tears.      This  sorrow's  heavenly; 
It  strikes  where  it  doth  love.      She  wakes. 
Who's  there?     Othello? 

Ay,  Desdemona. 
Will  you  come  to  bed,  my  lord? 
Have  you  pray'd  to-night,  Desdemon? 

Ay,  my  lord. 
If  you  bethink  yourself  of  any  crime 
Unreconcil'd  as  yet  to  Heaven  and  grace, 
Solicit  for  it  straight. 

Alack,  my  lord,  what  may  you  mean  by  that? 
Well,  do  it,  and  be  brief;  I  will  walk  by. 
I  would  not  kill  thy  unprepared  spirit; 
No;  heavens  forfend!     I  would  not  kill  thy  soul. 
Talk  you  of  killing? 


Desdemona 
Othello  — 
Desdemona 
Othello  — 
Desdemona 
Othello  — 


Desdemona 
Othello  — 


Desdemona 


13264 1 


SHAKESPEARE 


Othello  — 
Dcsdemona 

Othello  — 
Dcsdemona 
Othello  — 
Dcsdemona 


Othello  — 
Dcsdemona 
Othello  — 
Desdemona 


Othello  — 
Desdemona 
Othello  — 

Dcsdemona 

Othello  — 

Dcsdemona 
Othello  — 


Desdemona 
Othello  — 
Desdemona 


Othello 


Desdemona  — 


Ay,   I  do. 

Then  Heaven 
Have  mercy  on  me! 

Amen,  with  all  my  heart! 
If  you  say  so,  I  hope  you  will  not  kill  me. 
Hum! 

And  yet  I  fear  you;  for  you're  fatal  then 
When  your  eyes  roll  so.      Why  I  should  fear  I  know  not, 
Since  guiltiness  I  know  not;  but  yet  I  feel  I  fear. 
Think  on  thy  sins. 

They  are  loves  I  bear  to  you. 
Ay,  and  for  that  thou  diest. 
That  death's  unnatural  that  kills  for  loving. 
Alas,  why  gnaw  you  so  your  nether  lip? 
Some  bloody  passion  shakes  your  very  frame. 
These  are  portents;  but  yet  I  hope,  I  hope. 
They  do  not  point  on  me. 

Peace,  and  be  still! 
I  will  so.      What's  the  matter? 

That  handkerchief  which  I  so  lov'd  and  gave  thee 
Thou  gav'st  to  Cassio. 

No,  by  my  life  and  sotd! 
Send  for  the  man,  and  ask  him. 

Sweet  soul,  take  heed, 
Take  heed  of  perjury;  thou  art  on  thy  death-bed. 
Ay,  but  not  yet  to  die. 

Yes,  presently: 
Therefore  confess  thee  freely  of  thy  sin; 
For  to  deny  each  article  with  oath 
Cannot  remove  nor  choke  the  strong  conception 
That  I  do  groan  withal.      Thou  art  to  die. 
0,  Heaven,  have  mercy  on  me! 

I  say,  amen. 
And  have  you  mercy  too!     I  never  did 
Offend  you  in  my  life;  never  lov'd  Cassio 
But  with  such  general  warranty  of  heaven 
As  I  might  love;  I  never  gave  him  token. 
By  heaven,  I  saw  my  handherchief  in  's  hand. 

0  perjur'd  woman!  thou  dost  stone  my  heart, 
And  make  me  call  what  I  intend  to  do 

A  murder,  which  I  thought  a  sacrifice. 

1  saw  the  handkerchief. 

He  found  it  then; 
I  never  gave  it  him.      Send  for  him  hither; 
Let  him  confess  a  truth. 


SHAKESPEARE 


13264m 


Othello  — 
Desdemona 
Othello  — 
Desdemona 
Othello  — 
Desdemona 
Othello  — 

Desdemona 
Othello  — 

Desdemona 
Othello  — 
Desdemona 
Othello  — 
Desdemona 
Othello  — 
Desdemona 
Othello  — 
Desdemona 
Othello  — 


He  hath  confess'd. 


What,  my  lord? 

That  he  hath  us'd  thee. 


How?  unlawfully? 


Ay. 


He  will  not  say  so. 

No,  his  mouth  is  stopp'd; 
Honest  lago  hath  ta'en  order  for't. 
0!  my  fear  interprets.      What,  is  he  dead? 
Had  all  his  hairs  been  lives,  my  great  revenge 
Had  stomach  for  them  all. 
Alas!  he  is  betray 'd  and  I  undone. 
Out,  strumpet!  weep'st  thou  for  him  to  my  face? 
O,  banish  me,  my  lord,  but  kill  me  not! 
Down,  strumpet! 

Kill  me  to-morrow;  let  me  live  to-night! 
Nay,  if  you  strive,  — 
But  half  an  hour! 

Being  done,  there  is  no  pause. 
But  while  I  say  one  prayer! 

It  is  too  late. 


Emilia 
Othello 


Emilia 
Othello 
Emilia 
Othello 


[He  smothers  her.] 

[at  the  door]  —  My  lord,  my  lord!     What,  ho'  my  lord,  my  lord! 

—  What  noise  is  this?     Not  dead?  not  yet  quite  dead? 
I  that  am  cruel  am  yet  merciful; 

I  would  not  have  thee  linger  in  thy  pain. 
So,  so. 
[within]  —  What,  ho!  my  lord,  my  lord! 

—  Who's  there? 

[within]  —         O,  good  my  lord,  I  would  speak  a  word  with  you! 

—  Yes,  —  'tis   Emilia.  —  By   and  by.  —  She's   dead. 
'Tis  like  she  comes  to  speak  of  Cassio's  death. 
The  noise  was  high.      Ha!  no  more  moving? 

Still  as  the  grave.     Shall  she  come  in?     Were't  good?  — 

I  think  she  stirs  again:  —  no.     What's  best  to  do? 

If  she  come  in,  she'll  sure  speak  to  my  wife. 

My  wife!  my  wife!  what  wife?      I  have  no  wife. 

0,  insupportable!     O  heavy  hour! 

Methinks  it  should  be  now  a  huge  eclipse 

Of  sun  and  moon,  and  that  the  affrighted  globe 

Did  yawn  at  alteration. 

—  I  do  beseech  you 

That  I  may  speak  with  you,  O,  good  my  lord! 


Emilia  [within 


I3264n 

Othello  - 


SHAKESPEARE 


Emilia  — 
Othello  — 
Emilia  — 
Othello  — 


Emilia  — 

Othello  — 

Emilia  — 
Othello  — 

Desdemona 
Emilia  — 
Othello  — 
Emilia  — 


Desdemona 
Emilia  — 
Desdemona 


Othello  — 
Emilia  — 
Othello  — 
Emilia  — 
Othello  — 

Emilia  — 

Othello  — 
Emilia  — 
Othello  — 
Emilia  — 


I  had  forgot  thee. 
Soft;  by  and  by.  — 
Where  art  thou? 


O,  come  in,  Emilia. 

Let  me  the  curtains  draw.  — 

[Unlocks  the  door.] 


[Enter  Emilia.] 

What's  the  matter  with  thee  now? 
O,  my  good  lord,  yonder 's  foul  murders  done! 
What,  now? 
But  now,  my  lord. 
It  is  the  very  error  of  the  moon; 
She  comes  more  nearer  earth  than  she  was  wont, 
And  makes  men  mad. 

Cassio,  my  lord,  hath  kill'd  a  young  Venetian 
Call'd  Roderigo. 

Roderigo  kill'd! 
And  Cassio  kill'd! 

No,  Cassio  is  not  kill'd. 
Not  Cassio  kill'd!     Then  murder's  out  of  tune, 
And  sweet  revenge  grows  harsh. 
O,   falsely,   falsely   murder'd! 

O  Lord,  what  cry  is  that? 
That!  what? 

Out,  and  alas!  that  was  my  lady's  voice. 
Help!  help,  ho!  help!      O  lady,  speak  again! 
Sweet  Desdemona!     O  sweet  mistress,  speak! 
A  guiltless  death  I  die. 
O,  who  hath  done  this  deed? 
Nobody;  I  myself.      Farewell! 
Commend  me  to  my  kind  lord.     0,  farewell! 

[Dies.] 

Why,  how  should  she  be  murder'd? 

Alas,  who  knows? 
You  hear  her  say  herself,  it  was  not  I. 
She  said  so;  I  must  needs  report  the  truth. 
She's,  like  a  liar,  gone  to  burning  hell. 
'Twas  I  that  kill'd  her. 

0,  the  more  angel  she, 
And  you  the  blacker  devil! 
She  turn'd  to  folly,  and  she  was  a  whore. 
Thou  dost  belie  her,  and  thou  art  a  devil. 
She  was  false  as  water. 

Thou  art  rash  as  fire,  to  say 
That  she  was  false:  0,  she  was  heavenly  true! 


SHAKESPEARE 


132640 


Othello 


Emilia 
Othello 
Emilia 
Othello 


Emilia 
Othello 


Emilia  — 
Othello  — 
Emilia  — 

Othello  — 


Emilia  — 


Othello  ■ 
Emilia 


Othello  ■ 
Emilia 


Cassio  did  top  her;  ask  thy  husband  else. 

0,  I  were  damn'd  beneath  all  depth  in  hell 

But  that  I  did  proceed  upon  just  grounds 

To  this  extremity.     Thy  husband  knew  it  all. 

My  husband! 

Thy  husband. 

That  she  was  false  to  wedlock? 

Ay,  with  Cassio.      Nay,  had  she  been  true, 

If  Heaven  would  make  me  such  another  world 

Of  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite, 

I'd  not  have  sold  her  for  it. 

Aly  husband! 
Ay,  'twas  he  that  told  me  on  her  first. 
An  honest  man  he  is,  and  hates  the  slime 
That  sticks  on  filthy  deeds. 

My  husband! 
What  needs  this  iterance,  woman?     I  say  thy  husbancL 

0  mistress,  villainy  hath  made  mocks  with  love! 
My  husband  say  that  she  was  false! 

He,  woman; 

1  say  thy  husband;  dost  understand  the  word? 
My  friend,  thy  husband,  honest,  honest  lago. 
If  he  says  so,  may  his  pernicious  soul 

Rot  half  a  grain  a  day!      He  lies  to  the  heart. 

She  was  too  fond  of  her  most  filthy  bargain. 

Ha! 

Do  thy  worst! 

This  deed  of  thine  is  no  more  worthy  heaven 

Than  thou  wast  worthy  her. 

Peace,  you  were  best. 
Thou  hast  not  half  that  power  to  do  me  harm 
As  I  have  to  be  hurt.     O  gull!     0  dolt! 
As  ignorant  as  dirt!     Thou  hast  done  a  deed  — 
I  care  not  for  thy  sword;  I'll  make  thee  known, 
Though  I  lost  twenty  lives.  —  Help!  help,  ho!  help! 
The   Moor  hath  kill'd  my  mistress!     ^lurder!  murder! 


I3264P 


SHAKESPEARE 


c 


LEAR'S  RECOVERY 
From  (King  Lear.) 

A  tent  in  the  French  camp. 

[Enter  Cordelia,  Kent,  and  Doctor.] 

ORDEHA  —    O  thou  good  Kent,  how  shall  I  live  and  work 

To  match  thy  goodness?      My  life  will  be  too  short, 

And  every  measure  fail  me. 
Kent  —  To  be  acknowledg'd,  madam,  is  o'erpaid. 

All  my  reports  go  with  the  modest  truth; 

Nor  more  nor  clipp'd,  but  so. 
Cordelia  —  Be  better  suited; 

These  weeds  are  memories  of  those  worser  hours. 

I  prithee,  put  them  off. 
Kent  —  Pardon,  dear  madam; 

Yet  to  be  known  shortens  my  made  intent. 

My  boon  I  make  it,  that  you  know  me  not 

Till  time  and  I  think  meet. 
Cordelia  —  Then  be't  so,  my  good  lord.     [To  the  Doctor.] 

How  does  the  King? 
Doctor  —  Madam,  sleeps  still. 

Cordelia  —  O  you  kind  gods, 

Cure  this  great  breach  in  his  abused  nature! 

The  untun'd  and  jarring  senses,  O  wind  up 

Of  this  child-changed  father! 
Doctor  —  So  please  your  Majesty 

That  we  may  wake  the  King?      He  hath  slept  long. 
Cordelia  —  Be  govern'd  by  your  knowledge,  and  proceed 

r  the  sway  of  your  own  will. 


i 


[Enter  Lear  in  a  chair  carried  by  Servants.      Gentleman  in  attendance.] 


Is  he  array'd? 
Gentleman  —         Ay,  madam;  in  the  heaviness  of  sleep 

We  put  fresh  garments  on  him. 
Doctor  —  Be  by,  good  madam,  when  we  do  awake  him; 

I  doubt  not  of  his  temperance. 
Cordelia  —  Very  well. 

Doctor  —  Please  you,  draw  near.  —  Louder  the  music  there! 

Cordelia  —  0  my  dear  father!      Restoration  hang 

Thy  medicine  on  my  lips;  and  let  this  kiss 

Repair  those  violent  harms  that  my  two  sisters 

Have  in  thy  reverence  made! 


SHAKESPEARE 


13264q 


Kent  — 
Cordelia 


Doctor  — 

Cordelia 
Lear  — 


Cordelia 
Lear  — 
Cordelia 
Doctor  — 
Lear  — 


Cordelia  — 


Lear  — 


Kind  and  dear  princess! 
Had  you  not  been  their  father,  these  white  flakes 
Did  challenge  pity  of  them.      Was  this  a  face 
To  be  oppos'd  against  the  warring  winds? 
To  stand  against  the  deep  dread-bolted  thunder? 
In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 
Of  quick,  cross  lightning?  to  watch  — poor  perdu!  — 
With  this  thin  helm?     Mine  enemy's  dog, 
Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that  night 
Against  my  fire;  and  wast  thou  fain,  poor  father. 
To  hovel  thee  with  swine  and  rogues  forlorn 
In  short  and  musty  straw?     Alack,  alack! 
'T  is  wonder  that  thy  life  and  wits  at  once 
Had  not  concluded  all.     He  wakes;  speak  to. him. 
Madam,  do  you;  'tis  fittest. 

How  does  my  royal  lord?      How  fares  your  IMajesty? 
You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  out  o'  the  grave. 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss;  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

Sir,  do  you  know  me? 
You  are  a  spirit,  I  know;  when  did  you  die? 
Still,  still,  far  wide! 

He's  scarce  awake;  let  him  alone  a  while. 
Where  have  I  been?      Where  am  I?      Fair  daylight? 
I  am  mightily  abus'd.      I  should  even  die  with  pity, 
To  see  another  thus.      I  know  not  what  to  say. 
I  will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands.      Let's  see; 
I  feel  this  pin  prick.      Would  I  were  assur'd 
Of  my  condition! 

0,  look  upon  me,  sir, 
And  hold  your  hand  in  benediction  o'er  me. 
No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 

Pray,  do  not  mock  me. 
I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man. 
Fourscore  and  upward,  not  an  hour  more  nor  less; 
And,  to  deal  plainly, 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Methinks  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man; 
Yet  I  am  doubtful;  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is,  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments;  nor  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night.      Do  not  laugh  at  me; 
For,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 


I3264r 


SHAKESPEARE 


Cordelia 
Lear  — 


Cordelia 
Lear  — 
Kent  — 
Lear  — 
Doctor  — 


Cordelia 
Lear  — 


And  so  I  am,  I  am. 
Be  your  tears  wet?     Yes,  faith.     I  pray,  weep  not. 
If  you  have  poison  for  me,  I  will  drink  it, 
I  know  you  do  not  love  me;  for  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong: 
You  have  some  cause,  they  have  not. 

No  cause,  no  cause. 
Am  I  in  France? 

In  your  own  kingdom,  sir. 
Do  not  abuse  me. 

Be  comforted,  good  madam;  the  great  rage. 
You  see,  is  kill'd  in  him:  and  yet  it  is  danger 
To  make  him  even  o'er  the  time  he  has  lost. 
Desire  him  to  go  in;  trouble  him  no  more 
Till  further  settling. 
Will't  please  your  Highness  walk? 

You  must  bear  with  me. 
Pray  you  now,  forget  and  forgive;  I  am  old  and  foolish. 

[Exeunt.] 


I 


THE  DEATH  OP  LEAR 


\Enter  Lear,  with  Cordelia  in  his  arms.] 


LEAR  —     Howl,  howl,  howl!      O,  you  are  men  of  stones! 
Had  I  your  tongues  and  eyes,  I'd  use  them  so 

That  heaven's  vault  should  crack.      She's  gone  for  ever! 

I  know  when  one  is  dead,  and  when  one  lives; 

She's  dead  as  earth.      Lend  me  a  looking-glass; 

If  that  her  breath  will  mist  or  stain  the  stone, 

Why,  then  she  lives. 
Kent  —  Is  this  the  promis'd  end? 

Edgar  —         Or  image  of  that  horror? 
Albany  —  Fall,  and  cease! 

Lear  —  This  feather  stirs;  she  lives!     If  it  be  so, 

It  is  a  chance  which  does  redeem  all  sorrows 

That  ever  I  have  felt. 
Kent  [kneeling]  —  O  my  good  master! 
Lear  —  Prithee,  away. 

Edgar  —  'T  is  noble  Kent,  your  friend. 

Lear  —  A  plague  upon  you,  murderers,  traitors  all! 

I  might  have  sav'd  her;  now  she's  gone  for  ever! 


SHAKESPEARE  13264s 

Cordelia,  Cordelia!  stay  a  little.      Ha! 

What  is't  thou  say'st?      Her  voice  was  ever  soft, 

Gentle,  and  low;  an  excellent  thing  in  woman. 

I  kill'd  the  slave  that  was  a-hanging  thee. 
Gentleman  —  'Tis  true,  my  lords,  he  did. 
Lear  —  Did  I  not,  fellow? 

I  have  seen  the  day,  with  my  good  biting  falchion 

I  would  have  made  him  skip.      I  am  old  now. 

And  these  same  crosses  spoil  me.      Who  are  you? 

Mine  eyes  are  not  o'  the  best.      I'll  tell  you  straight. 
Kent  —  If  Fortune  brag  of  two  she  lov'd  and  hated, 

One  of  them  we  behold. 
Lear  —  This  is  a  dull  sight.      Are  you  not  Kent? 

Kent  —  The  same, 

Your  servant  Kent.      Where  is  your  servant  Caius? 
Lear  —  He's  a  good  fellow,  I  can  tell  you  that; 

He'll  strike,  and  quickly  too.      He's  dead  and  rotten. 
Kent  —  No,  my  good  lord;  I  am  the  very  man,  — 

Lear  —  I'll  see  that  straight. 

Kent  —  That,  from  your  first  of  difference  and  decay, 

Have  follow'd  your  sad  steps. 
Lear  —  You  are  welcome  hither. 

Kent  —  Nor  no  man  else;  all's  cheerless,  dark,  and  deadly. 

Your  eldest  daughters  have  fordone  themselves, 

And  desperately  are  dead. 
Lear  —  Ay,  so  I  think. 

Albany  —      He  knows  not  what  he  says;  and  vain  is  it 

That  we  present  us  to  him. 

[Enter  a  Messenger.] 

Edgar  —  Very  bootless. 

Messenger  —  Edmund  is  dead,   my  lord. 

Albany  —  That's  but  a  trifle  here.  — 

You  lords  and  noble  friends,  know  our  intent. 

What  comfort  to  this  great  decay  may  come 

Shall  be  appli'd.      For  us,  we  will  resign. 

During  the  life  of  this  old  majesty, 

To  him  our  absolute  gower;  [to  Edgar  and  Kent]  you,  to 
your  rights. 

With  boot,  and  such  addition  as  your  honors 

Have  more  than  merited.      All  friends  shall  taste 

The  wages  of  their  virtue,  and  all  foes 

The  cup  of  their  dcservings.     O,  see,  seel 
Lear  —  And  my  poor  fool  is  hang'd!     No,  no,  no  life! 

Why  should  a  dog,  a  horse,  a  rat,  have  life. 


13264 1  SHAKESPEARE 

And  thou  no  breath  at  all?     Thou'lt  come  no  more, 

Never,  never,  never,  never,  never! 

Pray  you,  undo  this  button.      Thank  you,  sir. 

Do  you  see  this?      Look  on  her,  look,  her  lips. 

Look  there,  look  there!  [Dies.] 

Edgar  —  He  faints!     Aly  lord!  my  lord! 

Keni  —  Break,  heart;  I  prithee,  break! 

Edgar  —  Look  up,  my  lord. 

Kent  —  Vex  not  his  ghost;  O,  let  him  pass!      He  hates  him 

That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  tough  world 

Stretch  him  out  longer, 
Edgar  —  He  is  gone,  indeed. 

Kent  —  The  wonder  is  he  hath  endur'd  so  long; 

He  but  usurp'd  his  life. 
Albany  —      Bear  them  from  hence.      Our  present  business 

Is  general  woe.      [To  Kent  and  Edgar.]     Friends  of  my  soul, 
you  twain 

Rule  in  this  realm,  and  the  gor'd  state  sustain. 
Kent  —  I  have  a  journey,  sir,  shortly  to  go. 

My  master  calls  me;  I  must  not  say  no. 
Edgar  —  The  weight  of  this  sad  time  we  must  obey; 

Speak  what  we  feel,  not  what  we  ought  to  say. 

The  oldest  hath  borne  most;  we  that  are  young 

Shall  never  see  so  much,  nor  live  so  long. 

[Exeunt,  with  a  dead  march.] 


MACBETH    BEFORE   THE   DEED 
From  < Macbeth' 

IF  IT  were  done  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well 
It  were  done  quickly:  if  the  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch 
With  his  surcease  success;  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here. 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time, 
We'd  jump  the  life  to  come. —  But  in  these  cases, 
We  still  have  judgment  here;  that  we  but  teach 
Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  th'  inventor:   thus  even-handed  justice 
Commends  th'  ingredients  of  our  poisoned  chalice 
To  our  own  lips.     He's  here  in  double  trust: 
First  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject; 


I 


SHAKESPEARE  13264U 

Strong  both  against  the  deed:  then,  as  his  host, 
Who  should  against  his  murderer  shut  the  door, 
Not  bear  the  knife  myself.     Besides,  this  Duncan 
Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead,  like  angels  trumpet-tongued,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-off; 
And  pity,  like  a  naked  new-born  babe. 
Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubim,  horsed 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air. 
Shall  blo\V  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye, 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind. —  I  have  no  spur 
To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'erleaps  itself 
And  falls  on  the  other. — 


Go:  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink  is  ready. 
She  strike  upon  the  bell.     Get  thee  to  bed. — 

\Exit  Servant. 
Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me. 
The  handle  toward  my  hand?    Come,  let  me  clutch  thee;- 
I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 
Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling,  as  to  sight  ?   or  art  thou  but 
A  dagger  of  the  mind,  a  false  creation, 
Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ? 
I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 
As  this  which  now  I  draw. 

Thou  marshal'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going; 
And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. — 
Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  the  other  senses, 
Or  else  worth  all  the  rest :  I  see  thee  still ; 
And  on  thy  blade,  and  dudgeon,  gouts  of  blood. 
Which  was  not  so  before. —  There's  no  such  thing: 
It  is  the  bloody  business,  which  informs 
Thus  to  mine  eyes. —  Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 
Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtained  sleeper;   witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hecate's  offerings;  and  withered  murder, 
Alarumed  by  his  sentinel  the  wolf. 
Whose  howl's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 
With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  towards  his  design 
Moves  like  a  ghost.— Thou  sure  and  firm-set  earth, 


I3264V 


SHAKESPEARE 


Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 
The  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout, 
And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 
Which  now  suits  with  it. —  Whiles  I  threat,  he  lives: 
Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives. 

[A  bell  rings.'] 

I  go,  and  it  is  done:  the  bell  invites  me. 

Hear  it  not,  Duncan;  for  it  is  a  knell 

That  summons  thee  to  heaven  or  to  hell.  \Exit. 


L 


ADY    IMaCBETH 


Macbeth   \within\ 
Lady  Macbeth  — 


THE  MURDER  SCENE 
[Enter  Lady  Macbeth.] 

That  which  hath  made  them  drunk  hath  made 

me  bold; 
What  hath  quench'd  them  hath  given  me  fire. 

Hark!      Peace! 
It  was  the  owl  that  shriek'd,  the  fatal  bellman, 
Which    gives    the    stern'st    good-night.      He    is 

about  it; 
The  doors  are  open,  and  the  surfeited  grooms 
Do    mock    their    charge    with    snores:    I    have 

drugg'd  their   possets, 
That  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them, 
Whether  they  live  or  die. 

Who's  there?  what,  ho! 
Alack,  I  am  afraid  they  have  awaked 
And  'tis  not  done:  the  attempt  and  not  the  deed 
Confounds    us.      Hark!       I    laid    their    daggers 

ready; 
He  could  not  miss  'em.     Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done  't. 

[Enter  Macbeth.] 


Macbeth  — 
Lady  Macbeth 


My  husband! 
I  have  done  the  deed.      Didst  thou  not  hear  a 

noise? 
I  heard  the  owl  scream  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak? 


SHAKESPEARE 


13264 w 


Macbeth  — 
Lady   Macbeth 
Macbeth  — 
Lady  Macbeth  ■ 
Macbeth  — 

Lady   Macbeth 
Macbeth  — 
Lady  Macbeth 
Macbeth  — 


Lady  Macbeth 
Macbeth  — 


Lady  Macbeth 
Macbeth — 


Lady  Macbeth 
Macbeth  — 


Lady  Macbeth 
Macbeth  — 


Lady  Macbeth  — 


When? 

Now. 

As  I  descended? 

Ay. 

Hark! 

Who  lies  i'  the  second  chamber? 

Donalbain. 
This  is  a  sorry  sight.  [Looki7tg  on  his  hands.] 

A  foolish  thought,  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 
There's  one  did  laugh  in's  sleep,  and  one  cried 

((Murder!)) 
That  they  did  wake  each  other:  I  stood  and  heard 

them: 
But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  address'd 

them 
Again  to  sleep. 

There  are  two  lodged  together. 
One  cried  ((God  bless  us!))  and  ((Amen))  the  other, 
As  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands: 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say  ((Amen,)) 
When  they  did  say  ((God  bless  us!)) 
Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

But  wherefore  could  I  not  pronounce  ((Amen))? 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  ((Amen)) 
Stuck  in  my  throat. 

These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  ways;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 
Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry  ((Sleep  no  more! 
Macbeth  does  murder  sleep))  —  the  innocent  sleep, 
Sleep  that  knits  up  the  ravel'd  slcave  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labor's  bath. 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  course, 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast,  — 

What  do  you  mean? 
Still  it  cried  ((Sleep  no  more!))  to  all  the  house: 
((Glamis     hath     murder'd    sleep,    and    therefore 

Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more:  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more.)) 
Who  was  it  that  thus  cried?    Why,  worthy  thane, 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  think 
So  brainsickly  of  things.      Go  get  some  water, 
And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand. 
Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place? 
They  must  lie  there:  go  carry  them,  and  smear 
The  sleepy  grooms  with  blood. 


13264X 

Macbeth  — 

Lady   Macbeth  — 


Macbeth  — 


Ladv  Macbeth  — 


Macbeth  — 


SHAKESPEARE 

I'll  go  no  more: 
I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done; 
Look  on't  again  I  dare  not. 

Infirm  of  purpose! 
Give  me  the  daggers:  the  sleeping  and  the  dead 
Are  but  as  pictures:  'tis  the  eye  of  childhood 
That  fears  a  painted  devil.      If  he  do  bleed, 
I'll  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal, 
For  it  must  seem  their  guilt 

[Exit.      Knocking  within.] 

Whence  is  that  knocking? 
How  is't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appals  me? 
What  hands  are  here?  ha!  they  pluck  out  mine 

eyes! 
Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hand?      No;  this  my  hand  will 

rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine, 
Making  the  green  one  red. 

[Re-enter  Lady  Macbeth.] 

Aly  hands  are  of  your  color,  but  I  shame 

To   wear   a  heart  so   white.     [Knocking  within.] 

I  hear  a  knocking 
At  the  south  entry:  retire  we  to  our  chamber: 
A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed: 
How  easy  is  it  then!     Your  constancy 
Hath   left   you   unattended.     [Knocking   within.] 

Hark!  more  knocking: 
Get  on  your  nightgown,  lest  occasion  call  us 
And  show  us  to  be  watchers:  be  not  lost 
So  poorly  in  your  thoughts. 
To  know  my  deed,  'twere  best  not  know  myself. 

[Knocking  within.] 
Wake    Duncan    with    thy    knocking!     I    would 

thou  couldst!  [Exeunt.] 


SHAKESPEARE 

THE  SLEEP-WALKING  SCENE 

Dunsinane.     Ante-room  in  the  castle. 


132647 


[Enter  a  Doctor  of  Physic  and  a  Waiting-Gentlewoman.] 


D 


OCTOR 


Gentlewoman 


Doctor 


Gentlewoman 
Doctor  — 
Gentlewoman 


I  have  two  nights  watched  with  you,  but  can  perceive 
no  truth  in  your  report.  When  was  it  she  last 
walked? 

Since  his  majesty  went  into  the  field,  I  have  seen  her 
rise  from  her  bed,  throw  her  nightgown  upon  her, 
unlock  her  closet,  take  forth  paper,  fold  it,  write 
upon  't,  read  it,  afterwards  seal  it,  and  again  return 
to  bed;  yet  all  this  while  in  a  most  fast  sleep. 

A  great  perturbation  in  nature,  to  receive  at  once  the 
benefit  of  sleep  and  do  the  effects  of  watching! 
In  this  slumbery  agitation,  besides  her  walking  and 
other  actual  performances,  what,  at  any  time,  hiave 
you  heard  her  say? 

That,  sir,  which  I  will  not  report  after  her. 

You  may  to  me,  and  'tis  most  meet  you  should. 

Neither  to  you  nor  any  one,  having  no  witness  to 
confirm  my  speech. 

[Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  with  a  taper.] 


Lo   you,    here   she    comes!      This   Is   her   very   guise, 

and,  upon  my  life,  fast  asleep.      Observe  her;   stand 

close. 
How  came  she  by  that  light? 
Why,  it  stood  by  her:  she  has  light  by  her  continually; 

'tis  her  command. 
You  see,  her  eyes  are  open. 
Ay,  but  their  sense  is  shut. 
What  is  it  she  does  now?     Look,  how  she  rubs  her 

hands. 
Gentlewoman  —  It   is   an   accustomed  action  with  her,  to  seem   thus 

washing  her  hands:  I  have  known  her  continue  in 

this  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Yet  here's  a  spot. 
Hark!  she  speaks:   I  will  set  down  what  comes  from 

her,  to  satisfy  my  remembrance  the  more  strongly. 
Lady  Macbeth  ^- Out,  damned  spot!  out,  I  say!     One:  two:  why,  then 

'tis  time   to   do't.       Hell  is   murky.       Fie,   my  lord, 

fie!  a  soldier,  and  afeard?     What  need  we  fear  who 


Doctor  — 
Gentlewoman 

Doctor  — 
Goitlcwoman 
Doctor  — 


Lady  Macbeth 
Doctor  — 


I3264Z 


SHAKESPEARE 


knows  it,  when  none  can  tell  our  power  to  account? 

Yet  who  would  have  thought  the  old  man  to  have 

had  so  much  blood  in  him? 
Do  you  mark  that? 
The  thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife;  where  is  she  now?    What, 

will  these  hands  ne'er  be  clean?      No  more  o'  that, 

my  lord,   no   more   o'   that:   you   mar   all   with   this 

starting. 
Go  to,  go  to;  you  have  known  what  you  should  not. 
She  has  spoke  what  she  should  not,  I  am  sure  of  that: 

heaven  knows  what  she  has  known. 
Lady  Macbeth  —  Here's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still:  all  the  perfumes  of 

Arabia  will  not  sweeten  this  little  hand.      Oh,  ah,  oh! 
What  a  sigh  is  there!      The  heart  is  sorely  charged. 
I  would  not  have  such  a  heart  in  my  bosom  for  the 

dignity  of  the  whole  body. 

Well,  well,  well, 

Pray  God  it  be,  sir. 

This  disease  is  beyond  my  practice:  yet  I  have  known 

those   which   have   walked  in  their  sleep   who  have 

died  holily  in  their  beds. 
Wash  your  hands;  put  on  your  nightgown;  look  not  so 

pale:  I  tell  you  yet  again,  Banquo's  buried;  he  cannot 

come  out  on  's  grave. 
Even  so? 
-  To  bed,  to  bed;  there's  knocking  at  the  gate:  come, 

come,  come,  come,  give  me  your  hand:   what's  done 

cannot  be  undone:  to  bed,  to  bed,  to  bed.  [Exit.] 

Will  she  go  now  to  bed? 
Directly. 

Foul  whisperings  are  abroad:  unnatural  deeds 
Do  breed  unnatural  troubles:  infected  minds 
To  their  deaf  pillows  will  discharge  their  secrets: 
More  needs  she  the  divine  than  the  physician. 
God,  God    forgive  us  all!     Look  after  her; 
Remove  from  her  the  means  of  all  annoyance, 
And  still  keep  eyes  upon  her.       So  good-night: 
]My  mind  she  has  mated  and  amazed  my  sight: 
I  think,  but  dare  not  speak. 

Good-night,  good  doctor. 
[Exeunt.] 


Doctor  — 

Lady  Macbeth 


Doctor  — 

Gentlewoman 


Doctor  — 

Gentlewoman 

Doctor  — 
Gentlewoman 
Doctor  — 


Lady  Macbeth 


Doctor  — 
Lady  Macbeth 


Doctor  — 
Gentlewoman 
Doctor  — 


Gentlewoman 


SHAKESPEARE 


13265 


MACBETH'S  DESPAIR 
In  Dunsinane  Castle. 


{Enter  Macbeth,  Doctor,  and  Attendants.] 


M 


ACBETH  


Seyton  — 
Macbeth  - 
Seyton  — 
Macbeth  - 

Seyton  — 
Macbeth  - 


Doctor  — 


Macbeth 


Doctor  — 

Macbeth  - 


Seyton!  —  I  am  sick  at  heart. 
When  I  behold  —  Seyton,  I  say!  —  This  push 
Will  cheer  me  ever,  or  disseat  me  now. 
I  have  lived  long  enough:  my  way  of  life 
Is  fall'n  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf. 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age. 
As  honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have;  but,  in  their  stead. 
Curses,  not  loud  but  deep,  mouth-honor,  breath. 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  and  dare  not. 
Seyton! 

[Enter  Seyton. J 

What's  your  gracious  pleasure? 

What  news  more? 
All  is  confirm'd,  my  lord,  which  was  reported. 
I'll  fight,  till  from  my  bones  my  flesh  be  hack'd. 
Give  me  my  armor. 

'Tis  not  needed  yet. 
I'll  put  it  on. 

Send  out  moe  horses,  skirr  the  country  round; 
Hang  those  that  talk  of  fear.      Give  me  mine  armor. 
How  does  your  patient,  doctor? 

Not  so  sick,  my  lord. 
As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 

Cure  her  of  that. 
Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased. 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow, 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain, 
And  with  some  swceb  oblivious  antidote 
Cleanse  the  stufl'd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart? 

Therein  the  patient 
Must  minister  to  himself. 
Throw  physic  to  the  dogs,  I'll'  none  of  it. 
Come,  put  mine  armor  on;  give  me  my  staff. 
Seyton,  send  out.      Doctor,  the  thanes  fly  from  me. 


13265  a  SHAKESPEARE 

Come,  sir,  dispatch.      If  thou  couldst,  doctor,  cast 
The  water  of  my  land,  find  lier  disease 
And  purge  it  to  a  sound  and  pristine  health, 
I  would  applaud  thee  to  the  very  echo. 
That  should  applaud  again.      PuU't  off,  I  say. 
What  rhubarb,  senna,  or  what  purgative  drug, 
Would  scour  these   English   hence?      Hear'st  thou  of 
them? 

Doctor  —  Ay,  my  good  lord;  your  royal  preparation 

Makes  us  hear  something. 

Macbeth  —  Bring  it.  after  me. 

I  will  not  be  afraid  of  death  and  bane 
Till  Birnam  forest  come  to  Dunsinane. 

Doctor  [aside]  —    Were  I  from  Dunsinane  away  and  clear, 

Profit  again  should  hardly  draw  me  here. 

[Exit  Doctor.] 

[Enter  Seyton,  and  Soldiers,  with  drum  and  colors.] 

Macbeth  —  Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  outward  walls; 

The  cry  is  still  «They  come)):  our  castle's  strength 

Will  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn:  here  let  them  lie 

Till  famine  and  the  ague  eat  them  up: 

Were    they    not    forced    with    those    that    should    be 

ours, 
We  might  have  met  them  dareful,  beard  to  beard, 
And  beat  them  backward  home. 

[A  cry  of  women  within.] 

What  is  that  noise? 
Seyton  —  It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord.  [Exit.] 

Macbeth  —  I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears: 

The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  cool'd 
To  hear  a  night-shriek,  and  my  fell  of  hair 
Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse  and  stir 
As  life  were  in  't:  I  have  supp'd  full  with  horrors; 
Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaughterous  thoughts. 
Cannot  once  start  me. 

[Re-enter  Seyton.] 

Wherefore  was  that  cry? 
Seyton  —  The  queen,  my  lord,  is  dead. 


I 


SHAKESPEARE 


13265b 


Macbeth  —  She  should  have  died  hereafter; 

There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. 

To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 

Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 

To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time; 

And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 

The  way  to  dusty  death.      Out,  out,  brief  candle! 

Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 

That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage 

And  then  is  heard  no  more:  it  is  a  tale 

Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 

Signifying  nothing. 


THE  DEATH  OF  YOUNG  SIWARD 

[Enter,    with    drum    and   colors,    Malcolm,    old    Siward,    Ross,    the    other 
Thanes,  and  Soldiers.] 


M 


ALCOLM  

Siward  - 


Malcolm  — 
Ross  — 


Siward  — 
Ross  — 


Siward  — 
Ross  — 
Siward  — 


Malcolm  — 
Siward  — 


I  would  the  friends  we  miss  were  safe  arrived. 
-  Some  must  go  off:  and  yet,  by  these  I  see, 
So  great  a  day  as  this  is  cheaply  bought. 
Macduff  is  missing,  and  your  noble  son. 
Your  son,  my  lord,  has  paid  a  soldier's  debt: 
He  only  lived  but  till  he  was  a  man; 
The  which  no  sooner  had  his  prowess  confirm'd 
In  the  unshrinking  station  where  he  fought, 
But  like  a  man  he  died. 

Then  he  is  dead? 
Ay,  and  brought  off  the  field:  your  cause  of  sorrow 
IMust  not  be  measured  by  his  worth,  for  then 
It  hath  no  end. 

Had  he  his  hurts  before? 
Ay,  on  the  front. 

Why  then,  God's  soldier  be  he! 
Had  I  as  many  sons  as  I  have  hairs, 
I  would  not  wish  them  to  a  fairer  death: 
And  so  his  knell  is  knoU'd. 

He's  worth  more  sorrow, 
And  that  I'll  spend  for  him. 

He's  worth  no  more: 
They  say  he  parted  well  and  paid  his  score: 
And  so  God  be  with  him!     Here  comes  newer  comfort. 


[Re-enter   Macduff,   with   Macbeth's  head.] 


13265  c  SHAKESPEARE 

Macduf —  Hail,  king!  for  so  thou  art:  behold,  where  stands 

The  usurper's  cursed  head:  the  time  is  free: 
I  see  thee  compass'd  with  thy  kingdom's  pearl, 
That  speak  my  salutation  in  their  minds; 
Whose  voices  I  desire  aloud  with  mine: 
Hail,  King  of  Scotland! 

^^i  —  '  Hail,  King  of  Scotland! 

[Flourish.] 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 


I3265d 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 
(1856-) 

BY   CLAYTON   HAMILTON 

[EORGE  Bernard  Shaw,  the  celebrated  pamphleteer  and  play- 
wright, was  born  in  Dublin  in  1856.  He  came  of  a  Protestant 
family  of  the  middle  class.  His  father,  a  small  government 
official,  was  an  unsuccessful  and  a  rather  shiftless  man;  but  his  mother 
was  a  woman  of  culture  and  of  character.  She  was  an  excellent  musi- 
cian; and,  when  the  fortunes  of  the  family  were  at  their  lowest  ebb,  she 
supported  her  husband  and  her  son  by  teaching  music.  It  was  from 
his  mother  that  Shaw  derived  his  early  love  for  music  and  for  painting 
and  his  early  interest  in  science.  His  formal  schooling  never  proceeded 
very  far;  and  of  this  early  period  of  education  he  has  said:  «It  was  the 
most  completely  wasted  and  mischievous  part  of  my  life.))  During  his 
teens,  he  left  school  to  earn  a  pittance  in  the  office  of  a  land-agent. 
Meanwhile,  his  mother  had  moved  to  London,  to  improve  her  prospects 
in  the  field  of  music;  and  he  followed  her  to  London  in  1876. 

Throughout  the  subsequent  nine  years,  Shaw  lived  on  next  to 
nothing  in  a  shabby  little  room,  and  tried  his  hand  at  literary  hack- 
work. According  to  his  own  account,  the  products  of  his  pen  in  this 
entire  period  afforded  him  a  profit  of  six  pounds;  and,  in  order  to  keep 
alive,  he  was  obliged  to  accept  a  small  allowance  from  his  mother. 
It  was  in  this  period  of  hardship  that  he  adopted  the  exceedingly  ab- 
stemious regimen  of  life  that  he  has  ever  since  maintained.  He  does  not 
drink,  he  docs  not  smoke,  he  does  not  eat  meat;  and  he  supplements 
his  vegetarianism  by  a  habit  of  early  rising  and  favoring  the  open  air. 
It  might  be  said,  as  Stevenson  remarked  in  his  essay  on  Thoreau,  that 
<(so  many  negative  superiorities  begin  to  smack  a  little  of  the  prig.)) 
To  any  such  suggestion,  Shaw  would  probably  reply  that,  in  the  habit 
of  his  life,  he  is  a  normal  person,  and  that  the  vast  majority  of  men, 
who  prefer  to  eat  meat  and  to  smoke  and  drink  occasionally,  should  be 
regarded  as  abnormal. 

In  the  lean  years  of  his  apprenticeship,  Shaw  was  particularly 
interested  in  theories  of  social  revolution.  He  became  an  active  member 
in  several  societies  which  were  organized  to  attack  the  established 
religion  of  the  time  and  to  support  various  panaceas  of  political  economy. 
This  interest  brought  him  into  contact  with  several  important  thinkers, 
such  as  Sidney  Webb,  Edward  Carpenter,  William  Morris,  and  Henry 
George.      He  became  a  cart-tail  orator  in  Hyde  Park  and  established 


132656  GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

an  incipient  reputation  as  a  propagandist.  Meanwhile,  between  1880 
and  1883,  he  wrote  four  novels,  —  (The  Irrational  Knot,)  (Love 
Among  the  Artists,)  (The  Unsocial  Socialist,)  and  (Cashel  Byron's 
Profession);  but  these  novels — though  now  read  with  interest  —  at- 
tracted nearly  no  attention  at  the  time,  and  earned  for  the  author 
neither  advertisement  nor  prosperity. 

In  1884,  the  Fabian  Society  was  founded,  with  the  purpose  of 
improving  social  conditions  by  encouraging  enlightened  legislation. 
Shaw  became  at  once  a  leading  member  of  this  mildly  revolutionary 
organization;  and  many  of  his  most  brilliant  essays  on  economic  topics 
have  appeared  among  its  publications.  In  this  aspect  of  his  work, 
Shaw  comes  forward  frankly  as  a  radical  in  politics  and  as  a  propagandist 
in  the  cause  of  socialism. 

In  1885,  when  Shaw  had  reached  the  age  of  twenty-nine,  he  became 
acquainted  with  Wiljliam  Archer,  —  a  man  accomplished  as  a  critic 
of  the  drama  and  notable  as  the  translator  and  editor  of  Ibsen.  Archer 
persuaded  Shaw  to  abandon  the  unremunerative  practice  of  writing 
novels  and  to  devote  his  attention  to  the  business  of  criticism.  Before 
long,  Shaw  became  a  public  commentator  on  music  and  painting  and 
the  drama.  In  a  brilliant  series  of  articles,  contributed  to  the  Saturday 
Review  and  signed  with  the  initials  G.  B.  S.,  he  soon  established  a  new 
standard  in  dramatic  criticism.  He  ably  seconded  the  work  of  Archer 
in  setting  up  the  revolutionary  art  of  Ibsen  as  a  potent  influence  upon 
the  British  drama  of  the  day,  and  furiously  fought  against  the  moribund 
conventions  which,  for  nearly  a  century,  had  impeded  the  progress  of 
the  drama  in  the  English  language.  As  a  critic  of  the  current  theatre, 
G.  B.  S.  ranked  himself  with  Archer  and  with  Arthur  Bingham  Walkley 
as  one  of  the  three  leaders  in  the  craft. 

It  was  owing  also  to  the  advice  and  influence  of  William  Archer  that 
Shaw  decided  to  try  his  hand  at  writing  plays.  His  first  piece, 
(Widower's  Houses,)  completed  in  1892,  was  produced  by  the  Inde- 
pendent Theatre,  which  had  been  established  by  J.  T.  Grein.  The 
only  possible  success  for  such  an  undertaking  was  a  succes  d'eslime. 
This  initial  play  was  followed  the  next  year  by  (The  Philanderer,) 
a  playful  piece  in  which  the  author  satirized  the  cult  of  the  New  Woman 
and  the  current  misconceptions  of  the  message  of  Ibsen.  Shaw's  next 
play,  (Mrs.  Warren's  Profession,)  which  was  also  composed  in  1893, 
was  prohibited  by  the  censor,  and  was  not  produced  in  England,  even 
privately,  till  1902. 

These  three  plays,  which  were  subsequently  labeled  by  the  author 
as  ((unpleasant,))  were  written  at  the  time  when  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  and 
Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones,  by  the  production  of  such  pieces  as  (The 
Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray)  and  (The  Case  of  Rebellious  Susan,)  were 
actively  occasioning  what  Mr.  Jones  has  called  «the  Renaissance  of  the 
English   Drama.))     Shaw,   disappointed    by  the  comparative  failure  of 


GEORGE    BERNARD    SHAW  I3265f 

his  own  plays  in  the  popular  and  public  theatre,  decided  to  make  an 
appeal  to  the  verdict  of  posterity  by  publishing  the  texts  of  his  dramatic 
compositions. 

At  that  time,  the  publication  of  plays,  in  England  and  America, 
was  utterly  uncustomary;  but  Shaw  invented  a  new  method  to  impose 
upon  the  reader  an  acceptance  of  his  plays  as  compositions  worthy 
to  be  read.  He  provided  each  piece  with  a  preface,  which,  because 
of  his  adeptness  in  the  art  of  criticism,  furnished  a  commentary  which 
even  the  most  casual  of  readers  could  not  afford  to  turn  his  back  upon; 
and,  in  the  minor  matter  of  stage-directions,  he  supplanted  the  tradi- 
tional shorthand  of  the  theatre  with  elaborate  little  essays  in  literary 
comment  which,  in  themselves,  were  worthy  of  remark.  By  these 
devices,  Shaw  succeeded  in  attracting  the  attention  of  the  reading  public 
to  his  published  plays.  Meanwhile,  the  more  effective  and  important 
contributions  to  ((the  Renaissance  of  the  English  Drama))  which  were 
being  made  by  Jones  and  by  Pinero  remained  unpublished,  except  in 
((acting  versions))  in  which  the  dialogue  was  printed  without  preface 
and  punctuated  only  by  stage-directions  recorded  in  the  traditional 
shorthand  of  the  theatre.  In  consequence  of  this  contrast,  the  early 
plays  of  Shaw  were  accepted  as  ((literature))  by  many  scholarly  and 
earnest  people  who,  because  of  their  seclusion  from  the  theatre,  refused 
to  accept  the  plays  of  Pinero  and  of  Jones  as  epoch-making  efforts 
toward  a  new  art  of  the  drama. 

By  virtue  of  a  not  unnatural  reaction,  the  early  acceptance  of  Shaw's 
plays  as  contributions  to  the  library  militated,  to  some  extent,  against 
their  acceptance  as  contributions  to  the  stage.  For  many  years  it  was 
assumed  that  his  pieces  were  too  ((literary))  to  be  exploited  in  the  popular 
and  public  theatre.  In  England  they  were  acted  only  at  special  matinees, 
under  the  auspices  of  semi-private  organizations,  such  as  the  Stage 
Society.  When  Vedrenne  and  Barker  had  established  a  repertory 
system  at  the  Court  Theatre  in  Sloane  Square,  Mr.  H.  Granville  Barker, 
as  actor  and  as  stage-director,  did  more  than  any  other  man  in  Eng- 
land to  bring  the  plays  of  Shaw  to  the  attention  of  the  general  public. 
It  was  Mr.  Barker  who  first  acted  the  parts  of  Marchbanks  in  (Candida,) 
Napoleon  in  (The  Man  of  Destiny,)  Brassbound  in  (Captain  Brass- 
bound's  Conversion,)  and  other  leading  characters  in  the  theatre  of 
Shaw;  and  by  his  sympathetic  stage-direction  he  did  much  toward 
establishing  a  sort  of  vogue  for  the  plays  of  his  friend  and  fellow- 
dramatist. 

But  it  was  in  America  that  Shaw  first  attained  a  practical  success 
in  the  commercial  theatre.  So  early  as  1804,  Richard  Mansfield  pre- 
sented (Arms  and  the  Man)  at  the  Herald  Square  Theatre  in  New 
York;  and  in  1897  this  eminent  actor  produced  (The  Devil's  Disciple.) 
Neither  of  these  plays  made  any  remarkable  amount  of  money;  but 
both  pieces  were  accorded  a  succbs  d'estime,  and  both  were  sufficiently 


13265 g  GEORGE    BERNARD    SHAW 

successful  to  warrant  their  retention  in  the  Mansfield  repertory. 
Richard  Mansfield  also  went  so  far  as  to  begin  rehearsals  of  Shaw's 
(Candida,)  but  he  abandoned  the  project  of  making  a  production 
when  he  discovered  that  the  part  of  Marchbanks  was  not  suited  to 
his  own  equipment  as  an  actor. 

In  1903,  Mr.  Arnold  Daly  scraped  together  a  few  hundred  dollars 
and  produced  (Candida)  for  a  series  of  special  matinees  at  the  Princess 
Theatre  in  New  York.  The  success  of  the  play  was  instantaneous. 
The  piece  soon  became  a  ((regular))  attraction,  and  ran  for  many  months 
as  one  of  the  commercial  triumphs  of  the  year.  Mr.  Daly  subsequently 
produced  several  other  plays  of  Shaw's  and  repeated  the  success  that 
he  had  made  with  (Candida.)  The  commercial  triumph  of  the  play- 
wright in  America  was  communicated  by  contagion  to  the  theatre- 
world  of  London;  and,  ever  since  1905,  the  plays  of  Bernard  Shaw  have 
been  eagerly  accepted  in  the  English  theatre.  Meanwhile,  however, 
the  dramatic  work  of  Shaw  had  already  been  welcomed  with  enthus- 
iasm on  the  continent  of  Europe  —  especially  in  Germany.  In  Ger- 
many his  reputation,  even  now,  is  higher  than  it  is  in  England  or  even 
in  America.  Some  of  Shaw's  later  plays,  (Pygmalion)  for  instance, 
have  been  translated  into  German  and  produced  in  BerHn  several 
months  before  they  have  been  shown  to  an  Enghsh-speaking  audience. 
Of  the  practical  success  of  Shaw  in  the  popular  and  public  theatre, 
there  is  no  longer  any  doubt.  Indeed,  it  may  safely  be  assumed  that 
Shaw  has  taken  in  more  money  at  the  box-office  than  any  other  living 
English  dramatist,  except  Barrie  and  Pinero  and  Henry  Arthur  Jones. 

But,  despite  his  popular  success  as  a  pubHc  entertainer,  Shaw  has 
always  considered  himself  primarily  a  teacher  and  only  incidentally  a 
playwright.  He  does  not  practise  the  dramatic  art  for  the  sake  of  art, 
but  for  the  sake  of  propaganda.  His  pieces  are  designed  not  as  plays 
of  plot,  nor  even  as  plays  of  character,  but  as  patterns  for  the  exposition 
of  ideas.  His  technique,  as  a  playwright,  is  sufficient  to  satisfy  most  of 
the  calls  that  have  been  made  upon  it.  In  (Candida,)  for  instance, 
he  has  shown  that  he  can  easily  command  the  pattern  of  ((the  well- 
made  play,))  inherited  from  Eugene  Scribe  and  domesticated  in  the 
English  theatre  by  the  early  plays  of  Pinero.  But  Shaw,  in  certain  of 
his  later  pieces,  like  (Getting  Married)  and  (Misalliance,)  has  de- 
liberately cast  aside  the  pattern  of  ((the  well-made  play))  and  written 
non-dramatic  conversations,  in  order  to  discuss  more  easily  the  ideas 
which  he  desired  to  set  before  the  public.  Such  a  procedure  may  be 
criticized  in  either  of  two  ways.  It  must,  inevitably,  be  condemned 
by  critics  who  are  interested  mainly  in  the  art  of  the  drama;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  it  may,  very  logically,  be  commended  by  critics  who 
are  interested  mainly  in  the  current  problems  of  society. 

Shaw  himself,  in  several  of  his  prefaces,  and  in  the  Prologue  and 
Epilogue  to    (Fanny's   First   Play,)    has  extracted  considerable   amuse- 


GEORGE    BERNARD    SHAW  .I3265h 

merit  from  the  fact  that  contemporary  critics  of  the  drama  have  ex- 
perienced an  unusual  amount  of  difficulty  in  ((placing))  his  dramatic 
compositions.  If  he  is  to  be  judged  merely  as  a  maker  of  plays  —  a 
practitioner  of  a  great  art  for  the  sake  of  art  —  he  must  be  ranked 
below  Pinero,  Jones,  and  Barrie,  and  two  or  three  other  contemporary 
English  playwrights.  But  if  he  is  to  be  judged  merely  as  a  propagan- 
dist —  a  sort  of  cart-tail  orator  in  the  public  theatre  —  he  must  be 
ranked  in  a  class  by  himself,  in  which  he  has  no  rival.  The  drastic  dis- 
agreement of  Shaw's  critics  may  be  ascribed  to  their  failure  to  distin- 
guish clearly  these  two  methods  of  approach  toward  the  compositions 
of  an  author  of  unquestioned  and  undeniable  talent. 

In  the  present  brief  discussion  of  Shaw's  dramatic  compositions,  his 
works  will  be  considered  first  as  plays  (from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
dramatic  critic),  and  secondly  as  propagandist  essays  (from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  student  of  philosophy).  By  means  of  such  an  absolute 
dichotomy,  it  may  become  possible  to  ((place))  the  plays  of  an  author 
who  has  brilliantly  eluded  most  attempts  to  pigeonhole  his  writings 
and  rank  them  in  the  catalogue  of  the  contemporary  theatre. 

As  a  playwright,  Shaw  has  never  been  particularly  interested  in 
problems  of  construction.  In  his  earlier  pieces,  he  was  satisfied  to 
pour  new  wine  into  old  bottles.  The  content  of  these  early  plays  was 
new,  but  the  structure  was  based  upon  the  pattern  which  Pinero  had 
previously  borrowed  from  T.  W.  Robertson.  In  his  later  plays,  Shaw 
has  introduced  no  notable  improvements  in  technique.  At  times  he 
has  discarded  altogether  the  pattern  of  ((the  well-made  play));  at  other 
times  he  has  reverted  to  the  loose  and  easy  pattern  of  the  Elizabethan 
((chronicle-history)) :  but  in  such  experiments  as  these,  he  has  merely 
revolted  against  the  rigors  of  contemporary  dramaturgy  without  offer- 
ing any  acceptable  substitute  for  the  structure  which  he  has  attempted 
to  discard.  As  an  architect  of  plays,  Shaw  is  certainly  inferior  to 
Pinero  and  Jones,  and  possibly  to  Galsworthy.  He  has  never  made  a 
pattern  so  remarkable  as  that  of  (The  Thunderbolt)  or  ( jMrs.  Dane's 
Defense);  and  he  has  never  built  a  structure  so  self-sustaining  and  so 
rigorous  as  that  of  (Strife.) 

As  an  artist  in  characterization,  Shaw  has  always  been  impeded  by 
the  fact  that  his  talent  is  essentially  critical  instead  of  creative.  The 
natural  habit  of  his  mind  is  to  take  the  elements  of  life  apart,  rather 
than  to  put  the  elements  of  life  together.  He  is  an  analyst  of  life,  and 
not  a  synthetist.  Because  of  this  predestined  inclination,  he  frequently 
writes  essays  about  characters  instead  of  creating  characters  that  are 
capable  of  acting  and  speaking  for  themselves.  As  a  creative  artist, 
he  must  be  ranked  very  far  below  such  a  dramatist  as  J.  M.  Barrie. 
Barrie,  by  a  single  little  line,  may  make  a  person  live  so  absolutely 
that  he  can  continue  his  existence  blithely  beyond  the  limits  of  the 
play  in  which   he  figures;  but  Shaw  disturl)S  the  absolute  existence  of 


t 


132651  GEORGE    BERNARD    SHAW 

his  characters  by  making  them  deliver  analytic  comments  on  them- 
selves which  could  be  written  only  by  the  author. 

It  is  in  the  subsidiary  element  of  dialogue  that  Shaw  most  easily 
asserts  a  claim  to  be  ranked  among  the  foremost  living  masters  of  the 
dramaturgic  art.  His  written  conversation  is  nearly  as  witty  as  that 
of  Oscar  Wilde  and  nearly  as  humorous  as  that  of  Henry  Arthur  Jones. 
His  dialogue  is  more  spontaneous  than  that  of  Pinero;  and,  at  times,  it 
is  almost  as  eloquent  as  that  of  Barrie.  Shaw  is,  indeed,  a  wondrous 
writer  of  good  talk.  Even  in  a  bad  play — like  (Getting  Married,) 
for  example  — -  he  holds  attention  easily  by  the  almost  preposterous 
brilliancy  of  his  command  of  dialectic.  As  a  builder  of  plays,  Shaw  is 
not  remarkable;  as  a  creator  of  characters,  he  is  comparatively  negligi- 
ble; but  as  a  writer  of  delightful  conversation,  he  is  all  but  supreme. 

The  importance  of  Shaw  as  a  social  propagandist  is,  for  many  reasons, 
more  difficult  to  define.  For  one  thing,  he  is  a  born  dissenter,  and  has 
a  nimble  habit  of  dancing  over  to  what  may  be  called  ((the  other  side)) 
of  any  subject.  Now,  this  other  side  may  often  be  the  right  side;  but, 
perhaps  more  frequently,  it  may  happen  to  be  the  wrong  side,  —  and, 
in  such  a  case,  Shaw's  attitude  is  interesting  only  as  an  indication  of 
an  unconventional  point  of  view.  For  instance,  when  England  entered 
the  great  war  of  19 14  to  support  the  guaranteed  neutrality  of  Belgium, 
it  might  have  been  expected  in  advance  that  Shaw  would  soon  assert 
in  public  that  the  treaty  of  neutralization  had  always  been  ((a  scrap  of 
paper))  and  that  England's  participation  in  the  war  had  been  motivated 
by  less  idealistic  reasons.  He  may  have  been  right,  he  may  have  been 
wrong;  but  the  point  to  be  considered  is  that  he  deliberately  chose 
to  champion  the  opinion  of  a  very  small  minority  of  his  fellow-country- 
men. 

Like  Ibsen's  Doctor  Stockmann,  Shaw  invariably  prefers  to  fight 
upon  the  losing  side  of  a  contention,  because  he  believes  that  ((the 
strongest  man  on  earth  is  he  who  stands  most  alone.))  At  all  times  he 
tries  to  be  the  spokesman  of  a  militant  minority.  By  this  procedure,  he 
sometimes  happens  to  appear  before  the  public  in  the  exceedingly 
ingratiating  role  of  a  lonely  knight-errant  for  the  right;  but  the  con- 
servative majority  is  by  no  means  always  wrong,  and,  in  consequence, 
this  tilter  against  many  windmills  is  frequently  unhorsed. 

It  is  one  of  Shaw's  chief  services  to  society  that  he  has  a  habit  of 
scenting  out  what  may  conveniently  be  called  ((the  other  half  of  the 
truth.))  Most  of  the  ideas  that  have  been  commonly  accepted  on  the 
basis  of  tradition  are  merely  half-truths,  after  all.  Shaw  combats 
them  by  brushing  them  away  and  setting  up  their  opposites.  But, 
in  the  course  of  this  procedure,  he  very  often  errs  by  surrendering  to 
the  manifest  temptation  of  overemphasis.  In  attacking  an  accepted 
half  of  the  truth,  he  exalts  the  other  half  as  if  it  were  the  whole  truth, 
and  thereby   dives   headlong  into  the   very  pit  he  was  attempting  to 


GEORGE   BERNARD    SHAW  132653 

avoid.  Thus,  it  has  traditionally  and  conventionally  been  assumed 
that,  in  the  love-chase  of  the  sexes,  men  pursue  women:  therefore,  in 
(Man  and  Superman,)  Shaw  asserts  the  opposite, — that  women 
pursue  men.  The  full  truth  of  this  matter  is,  of  course,  circuitous; 
both  sexes  chase  each  other  round  a  circle,  and  no  observer  can  deter- 
mine absolutely  which  is  the  pursuer  and  which  is  the  pursued.  In 
this  instance  —  which  may  be  accepted  as  a  symbol  of  uncounted 
others  —  the  only  way  to  arrive  at  an  indication  of  the  utter  truth  is 
to  take  the  traditional  opinion  and  the  opinion  of  Shaw  and  to  add  them 
together  and  then  divide  by  two.  An  emphatic  formulation  of  the  other 
half  of  a  truth  is  serviceable  as  a  corrective  of  conventional  opinion, 
but  it  cannot  be  accepted  at  its  face  value  as  a  statement  of  what  must 
absolutely  be  believed  as  final. 

Early  in  his  career  as  a  propagandist,  Shaw  discovered  that  many 
things  in  life  have  always  been  regarded  wrong-side  up.  To  correct 
this  error  in  the  common  vision,  he  decided  to  turn  life  topsy-turvy 
and  to  make  the  public  look  upon  the  pattern  upside  down.  This 
insistence  on  a  novel  point  of  view  was,  in  some  respects,  no  less  salutary 
than  it  was  surprising.  Many  wrongs  were  righted  by  this  drastic 
experiment  of  inducing  a  sort  of  handspring  in  the  art  of  contemplation. 
But  all  life  cannot  by  any  means  be  seen  exactly  by  an  acrobat  who 
prefers  to  look  upon  it  while  standing  on  his  head. 

Another  point  to  be  considered  is  that  the  mind  of  Bernard  Shaw 
is  almost  exclusively  intellectual  in  its  machinery.  The  man  appears 
to  be  deficient  in  the  apparatus  of  sensation,  and  his  mind  appears  to 
be  deficient  in  the  consequent  reactions  of  emotion.  He  seems  to 
believe  that  the  only  mental  processes  that  are  of  any  value  are  those 
of  the  intellect.  He  seems  to  disbelieve  in  any  movements  of  the  human 
mind  that  are  not  reasonable. 

Man  cannot  live  by  intellect  alone;  but,  in  the  plays  of  Bernard 
Shaw,  the  human  race  appears  to  be  expected  to  accept  the  possibility 
of  doing  so.  Shaw,  for  instance,  quite  obviously  disbelieves  in  the 
passion  of  love,  because  this  passion  is  not  reasonable.  In  the  real 
sense,  there  are  no  love-scenes  in  his  plays,  —  no  scenes,  at  least,  in 
which  the  synthetic  and  creative  sensation  of  sex  is  not  dominated  and 
confuted  by  the  analytical  and  critical  intrusion  of  the  cold  and  rea- 
sonable intellect.  The  comprehension  of  this  dramatist  is  limited 
within  the  little  circle  of  what  a  man  may  know  by  the  intellect  alone. 
He  lacks  the  larger  knowledge  of  ((what  every  woman  knows.))  Even 
as  an  abstract  thinker,  he  must  be  ranked  beneath  such  a  man  as  J.  M. 
Barrie,  who  knows,  ineffably  and  beyond  the  possibility  of  any  argu- 
ment, that  the  emotions  are  wiser  than  the  intellect. 

In  the  contemporary  theatre,  Shaw  has  attracted  much  attention 
as  a  champion  of  novel  and  advanced  ideas.  He  has  often  chosen  to 
discuss  the  timeliest  of  topics.     But  the  trouble  with  timely  topics  is 


13265k  GEORGE   BERNARD    SHAW 

that,  like  the  daily  newspapers,  they  are  bound  to  wear  a  date  upon 
their  foreheads;  and  the  trouble  with  advanced  ideas  is  that  they  are 
destined,  very  soon,  to  slip  behind  the  times.  (The  Philanderer)  of 
Shaw  is  obsolete  to-day,  because  the  ideas  which  it  discussed  were  new 
in  1893  and  now  have  been  forgotten;  but  (The  Second  Mrs.  Tanque- 
ray)  of  Pinero  is  just  as  new  as  ever,  because  the  ideas  which  it  dis- 
cussed in  1893  were  already  very  old.  The  plays  which  survive  in  the 
theatre  are  those  which  give  expression  to  perennial  ideas,  instead  of  to 
ideas  which  are  ephemeral.  The  invention  of  a  new  thought  in  the 
theatre  can  never  be  regarded  as  so  safe  an  undertaking  as  the  recogni- 
tion of  an  old  thought,  which  has  been  considered  for  many  centuries 
as  sound.  The  plays  of  Bernard  Shaw  may  lose  their  potency  within 
a  score  of  years,  because  they  were  so  novel  at  the  time  when  they  were 
written.  A  professed  disciple  of  dissent  is  seldom  honored  by  a  genera- 
tion beyond  the  period  in  which  he  fought  against  preponderating  odds. 
But,  whether  or  not  the  plays  of  Bernard  Shaw  are  destined  to  survive, 
in  the  library  or  in  the  theatre,  the  weighty  fact  must  be  recorded  that 
he  has  made  a  great  impression  on  his  time  and  has  set  contemporary 
critics  talking. 

THE  CHOICE 

From  (Candida.)      Copyright;    published  by  Brentano's,  and  reprinted  by  their 

permission. 

MARCHBANKS  —  Morcll,    there's    going   to    be    a    terrible    scene. 
Aren't  you  afraid? 

Morell  —  Not  in  the  least. 
Marchbanks  —  I  never  envied  you  your  courage  before.     [He  rises 
timidly  and  puts  his  hand  appealingly  on  Morell's  forearm.]     Stand 
by  me,  won't  you? 

Morell  [casting  him  off  gently,  hut  resolutely]  —  Each  for  himself, 
Eugene.  She  must  choose  between  us  now.  [He  goes  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room  as  Candida  returns.  Eugene  sits  down  again  071  the 
sofa  like  a  guilty  schoolboy  on  his  best  behavior.] 

Candida  [between  them,  addressing  Eugene]  —  Are  you  sorry? 
Marchbanks  [earnestly]  —  Yes,  heartbroken. 

Candida  —  Well,  then,  you  are  forgiven.  Now  go  off  to  bed  like 
a  good  little  boy:  I  want  to  talk  to  James  about  you. 

Marchbanks  [rising  in  great  consternation]  —  Oh,  I  can't  do  that, 
Morell.     I  must  be  here.     I'll  not  go  away.     Tell  her. 

Candida  [with  quick  suspicion]  —  Tell  me  what  ?  [His  eyes 
avoid  hers  furtively.  She  turns  and  mutely  transfers  the  question  to 
Morell.] 


GEORGE    BERNARD    SHAW  1 3265  1 

Morell  [bracing  himself  for  the  catastrophe]  —  I  have  nothing  to 
tell  her,  except  [here  his  voice  deepens  to  a  measured  and  mournful 
tenderness]  that  she  is  my  greatest  treasure  on  earth — if  she  is  really 
mine. 

Candida  [coldly,  offended  by  his  yielding  to  his  orator's  instinct  and 
treating  her  as  if  she  were  the  audience  at  the  Guild  of  St.  Matthew]  —  I 
am  sure  Eugene  can  say  no  less,  if  that  is  all. 

Marchbanks  [discouraged]  —  Morell :  she's  laughing  at  us. 

Morell  [with  a  quick  touch  of  temper]  —  There  is  nothing  to  laugh 
at.     Are  you  laughing  at  us,  Candida? 

Candida  [with  quiet  anger]  —  Eugene  is  very  quick-witted,  James. 
I  hope  I  am  going  to  laugh;  but  I  am  not  sure  that  I  am  not  going 
to  be  very  angry.  [She  goes  to  the  fireplace,  and  stands  there  leaning 
with  her  arm  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  her  foot  on  the  fender,  whilst 
Eugene  steals  to  JMorell  ajid  plucks  him  by  the  sleeve.] 

Marchbanks  [whispering]  —  Stop,  Morell.  Don't  let  us  say  any- 
thing. 

Morell  [pushing  Eugene  away  without  deigning  to  look  at  him]  — 
I  hope  you  don't  mean  that  as  a  threat,  Candida. 

Candida  [with  emphatic  warning]  —  Take  care,  James.  Eugene : 
I  asked  you  to  go.     Are  you  going? 

Morell  [putting  his  foot  down]  —  He  shall  not  go.  I  wish  him  to 
remain. 

Marchbanks  —  I'll  go.  I'll  do  whatever  you  want.  [lie  turns  to 
the  door.] 

Candida  —  Stop!  [He  obeys.]  Didn't  you  hear  James  say  he 
wished  you  to  stay?     James  is  master  here.     Don't  you  know  that? 

Marchbanks  [flushing  with  a  young  poet's  rage  against  tyranny]  — 
By  what  right  is  he  master? 

Candida  [quietly]  —  Tell  him,  James. 

Morell  [taken  aback]  —  My  dear:  I  don't  know  of  any  right  that 
makes  me  master.     I  assert  no  such  right. 

Candida  [with  infinite  reproach] — You  don't  know!  Oh,  James, 
James!  [To  Eugene,  musingly.]  I  wonder  do  you  understand, 
Eugene!  No:  you're  too  young.  Well,  I  give  you  leave  to  stay  — 
to  stay  and  learn.  [She  comes  away  from  the  hearth  and  places  herself 
between  them.]     Now,  James:  what's  the  matter?     Come:  tell  me. 

Marchbaiiks  [whispering  tremulously  across  to  him]  —  Don't. 

Candida  —  Come.     Out  with  it ! 

Morell  [slowly]  —  I  meant  to  prepare  }-our  mind  carefully,  Can- 
dida, so  as  to  prevent  misunderstanding. 


13265  m  GEORGE    BERNARD    SHAW 

Candida  —  Yes,  dear:  I  am  sure  you  did.     But  never  mind:   I 

shan't  misunderstand. 

Morell  —  Well  —  er  —  [He  hesitates,  unable  to  find  the  long  explana- 
tion which  he  supposed  to  he  available.] 

Candida  —  Well  ? 

Morell  [baldly]  —  Eugene  declares  that  you  are  in  love  with  him. 

Marchbanks  [frantically]  —  No,  no,  no,  no,  never.  I  did  not, 
Mrs.  Morell:  it's  not  true.  I  said  I  loved  you,  and  that  he  didn't. 
I  said  that  I  understood  you,  and  that  he  couldn't.  And  it  was  not 
after  what  passed  there  before  the  fire  that  I  spoke:  it  was  not,  on  my 
word.     It  was  this  morning. 

Candida  [enlightened]  —  This  morning! 

Marchbanks  —  Yes.  [He  looks  at  her,  pleading  for  credence  and 
then  adds,  simply.]     That  was  what  was  the  matter  with  my  collar. 

Candida  [after  a  pause,  for  she  does  not  take  in  his  meaning  at 
once]  —  His  collar !  [She  turns  to  Morell,  shocked.]  Oh,  James : 
did  you?     [She  stops.] 

Morell  [ashamed]  —  You  know,  Candida,  that  I  have  a  temper 
to  struggle  with.  And  he  said  [shuddering]  that  you  despised  me  in 
your  heart. 

Candida  [turning  quickly  on  Eugene]  —  Did  you  say  that? 

Marchbanks  [terrified]  —  No! 

Candida  [severely]  —  Then  James  has  just  told  me  a  falsehood. 
Is  that  what  you  mean? 

Marchbanks  —  No,  no :  I  —  I  —  [blurting  out  the  explanation  des- 
perately]—  it  was  David's  wife.  And  it  wasn't  at  home;  it  was 
when  she  saw  him  dancing  before  all  the  people. 

Morell  [taking  the  cue  with  a  debater's  adroitness]  —  Dancing  be- 
fore all  the  people,  Candida;  and  thinking  he  was  moving  their 
hearts  by  his  mission  when  they  v/ere  only  suffering  from  —  Prossy's 
complaint.  [She  is  about  to  protest:  he  raises  his  hand  to  silence  her, 
exclaiming.]     Don't  try  to  look  indignant,  Candida. 

Candida  [ijiterjecting]  —  Try ! 

Morell  [contimiing]  —  Eugene  was  right.  As  you  told  me  a  few 
hours  after,  he  is  always  right.  He  said  nothing  that  you  did  not 
say  far  better  yourself.  He  is  the  poet,  who  sees  everything;  and  I 
am  the  poor  parson  who  understands  nothing. 

Candida  [remorsefully]  —  Do  you  mind  what  is  said  by  a  foolish 
boy,  because  I  said  something  like  it  again  in  jest? 

Morell  —  That  foolish  boy  can  speak  with  the  inspiration  of  a 
child  and  the  cunning  of  a  serpent.     He  has  claimed  that  you  be- 


GEORGE   BERNARD   SHAW  1326511 

long  to  him  and  not  to  me;  and,  rightly  or  wrongly,  I  have  come  to 
fear  that  it  may  be  true.  I  will  not  go  about  tortured  with  doubts 
and  suspicions.  I  will  not  live  with  you  and  keep  a  secret  from  you. 
I  will  not  suffer  the  intolerable  degradation  of  jealousy.  We  have 
agreed  —  he  and  I  —  that  you  shall  choose  between  us  now.  I 
await  your  decision. 

Candida  [slowly  recoiling  a  step,  her  heart  hardened  by  his  rhetoric 
in  spite  of  the  sincere  feeling  behind  it]  —  Oh !  I  am  to  choose,  am  I  ? 
I  suppose  it  is  quite  settled  that  I  must  belong  to  one  or  the  other. 

Morell  [firmly]  —  Quite.     You  must  choose  definitely. 

Marchbanks  [a7ixiotisly]  —  Morell:  you  don't  understand.  She 
belongs  to  herself. 

Candida  [turning  on  him]  —  I  mean  that  and  a  good  deal  more, 
Master  Eugene,  as  you  will  both  find  out  presently.  And  pray,  my 
lords  and  masters,  what  have  you  to  offer  for  my  choice.?  I  am  up 
for  auction,  it  seems.     What  do  you  bid,  James? 

Morell  [reproachfully]  —  Cand  —  [He  breaks  down:  his  eyes  and 
throat  fill  with  tears:  the  orator  becomes  the  wounded  animal.]  I  can't 
speak. 

Candida  [impulsively  going  to  him]  —  Ah,  dearest 

Marchbanks  [in  wild  alarm]  —  Stop :  it's  not  fair.  You  mustn't 
show  her  that  you  suffer,  Morell.  I  am  on  the  rack,  too;  but  I  am 
not  crying. 

Morell  [rallying  all  his  forces] — Yes;  you  are  right.  It  is  for 
pity  that  I  am  bidding.     [He  disengages  himself  from  Candida.] 

Candida  [retreating,  chilled]  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  James;  I  did 
not  mean  to  touch  you.     I  am  waiting  to  hear  your  bid. 

Morell  [with  proud  humility]  —  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you  but 
my  strength  for  your  defense,  my  honesty  of  purpose  for  your  surety, 
my  ability  and  industry  for  your  livelihood,  and  my  authority  and 
position  for  your  dignity.  That  is  all  it  becomes  a  man  to  offer 
to  a  woman. 

Candida  [quite  quietly]  — And  you,  Eugene?     What  do  you  offer? 

Marchbanks  —  My  weakness!  my  desolation!  my  heart's  need! 

Cajidida  [impressed]  —  That's  a  good  bid,  Eugene.  Now  I  know 
how  to  make  my  choice. 

{She  pauses  and  looks  cicriously  from  one  to  the  other,  as  if  weighing  them. 
Morell,  whose  lofty  confidence  has  changed  into  heartbreaking  dread 
at  Eugene's  bid,  loses  all  power  of  concealing  his  anxiety.  Eugene, 
strung  to  the  highest  tension,  does  not  move  a  muscle] 


132650  GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

Morell  [in  a  suffocated  voice  —  the  appeal  bursting  from  the  depths 
of  his  anguish]  —  Candida ! 

Marchbanks  [aside,  in  a  flash  of  contempt]  —  Coward ! 

Candida  [significantly]  —  I  give  myself  to  the  weaker  of  the  two. 

[Eugene  divines  her  meaning  at  once:  his  face  whitens  like  steel  in  a  furnace 
thai  cannot  melt  it.] 

Morell  [boiving  his  head  with  Ihe  calm  of  collapse]  —  I  accept  your 
sentence,  Candida. 

Candida  —  Do  you  understand,  Eugene  ? 

Marchbanks  —  Oh,  I  feel  I'm  lost.     He  cannot  bear  the  burden. 

Morell  [incredulously,  raising  his  head  with  prosaic  abruptness]  — 
Do  you  mean  me,  Candida? 

Candida  [smiling  a  little]  —  Let  us  sit  and  talk  comfortably  over 
it  like  three  friends.  [To  Morell.]  vSit  down,  dear.  [Morell  takes 
the  chair  from  the  fireside  —  the  children's  chair.]  Bring  me  that 
chair,  Eugene.  [She  indicates  the  easy  chair.  He  fetches  it  silently, 
even  with  something  like  cold  strength,  and  places  it  next  Morell,  a  little 
behind  him.  She  sits  down.  He  goes  to  the  sofa  and  sits  there,  still 
silent  and  inscrutable.  When  they  are  all  settled  she  begins,  throwing  a 
spell  of  quietness  on  them  by  her  calm,  sane,  tender  tone.]  You  remember 
what  you  told  me  about  yourself,  Eugene:  how  nobody  has  cared 
for  you  since  your  old  nurse  died:  how  those  clever,  fashionable 
sisters  and  successful  brothers  of  yours  were  your  mother's  and  father's 
pets:  how  miserable  you  were  at  Eton:  how  your  father  is  trying 
to  starve  you  into  returning  to  Oxford:  how  you  have  had  to  live 
without  comfort  or  welcome  or  refuge,  always  lonely,  and  nearly 
always  disliked  and  misunderstood,  poor  boy! 

Marchbanks  [faithful  to  the  nobility  of  his  lot]  —  I  had  my  books. 
I  had  Nature.     And  at  last  I  met  you. 

Candida  —  Never  mind  that  just  at  present.  Now  I  want  you 
to  look  at  this  other  boy  here  —  my  boy  —  spoiled  from  his  cradle. 
We  go  once  a  fortnight  to  see  his  parents.  You  should  come  with 
us,  Eugene,  and  see  the  pictures  of  the  hero  of  that  household. 
James  as  a  baby!  the  most  wonderful  of  all  babies.  James  holding 
his  first  school  prize,  won  at  the  ripe  age  of  eight!  James  as  the  cap- 
tain of  his  eleven!  James  in  his  first  frock  coat!  James  under  all 
sorts  of  glorious  circumstances!  You  know  how  strong  he  is  (I  hope 
he  didn't  hurt  you)  — how  clever  he  is  —  how  happy!  [IVith  deep- 
ening gravity.]  Ask  James's  mother  and  his  three  sisters  what  it  cost 
to  save  Jam.es  the  trouble  of  doing  anything  but  be  strong  and  clever 


GEORGE    BERNARD    SHAW  13265P 

and  happy.  Ask  me  what  it  costs  to  be  James's  mother  and  three 
sisters  and  wife  and  mother  to  his  children  all  in  one.  Ask  Prossy 
and  Maria  how  troublesome  the  house  is  even  when  we  have  no 
visitors  to  help  us  to  slice  the  onions.  Ask  the  tradesmen  who  want 
to  worry  James  and  spoil  his  beautiful  sermons  who  it  is  that  puts 
them  off.  When  there  is  money  to  give,  he  gives  it:  when  there  is 
money  to  refuse,  I  refuse  it.  I  build  a  castle  of  comfort  and  indul- 
gence and  love  for  him,  and  stand  sentinel  always  to  keep  little  vulgar 
cares  out.  I  make  him  master  here,  though  he  does  not  know  it, 
and  could  not  tell  you  a  moment  ago  how  it  came  to  be  so.  [With 
sweet  irony.]  And  when  he  thought  I  might  go  away  with  you,  his 
only  anxiety  was  what  should  become  of  me!  And  to  tempt  me  to 
stay  he  offered  me  [leaning  forward  to  stroke  his  hair  caressingly  at 
each  phrase]  his  strength  for  my  defense,  his  industry  for  my  liveli- 
hood, his  position  for  my  dignity,  his  —  [Relenting.]  Ah,  I  am 
mixing  up  your  beautiful  sentences  and  spoiling  them,  am  I  not, 
darling?     [She  lays  her  cheek  fondly  against  his.] 

Morell  [quite  overcome,  kneeling  beside  her  chair  and  embracing  her 
with  boyish  ingenuousness]  —  It's  all  true,  every  word.  What  I  am 
you  have  made  me  with  the  labor  of  your  hands  and  the  love  of  your 
heart!  You  are  my  wife,  my  mother,  my  sisters:  you  are  the  sum 
of  all  loving  care  to  me. 

Candida  [in  his  arms,  smiling,  to  Eugene]  —  Am  I  your  mother 
and  sisters  to  you,  Eugene? 

Marchbanks  [rising,  with  a  fierce  gesture  of  disgust]  —  Ah,  never. 
Out,  then,  into  the  night  with  mc ! 

Candida  [rising  quickly  and  intercepting  him]  —  You  arc  not  going 
like  that,  Eugene? 

Marchbanks  [with  the  ring  of  a  man's  voice  —  no  longer  a  boy's  — 
in  the  words]  —  I  know  the  hour  when  it  strikes.  I  am  impatient  to 
do  what  must  be  done. 

Morell  [rising  from  his  knee,  alarmed]  —  Candida :  don't  let  him 
do  anything  rash. 

Candida  [confident,  smiling  at  Eugene]  —  Oh,  there  is  no  fear. 
He  has  learnt  to  live  without  happiness. 

Marchbanks  —  I  no  longer  desire  happiness :  life  is  nobler  than 
that.  Parson  James:  I  give  you  my  happiness  with  both  hands: 
I  love  you  because  j^ou  have  filled  the  heart  of  the  woman  I  loved. 
Good-bye.     [He  goes  towards  the  door.] 

Candida  —  One  last  word.  [lie  stops,  but  without  turning  to  her.] 
How  old  are  you,  Eugene? 


13265  q  GEORGE   BERNARD  .SHAW 

Marchbanks  —  As  old  as  the  world  now.     This  morning  1  was 

eighteen. 

Candida  [going  to  him,  and  standing  behind  him  with  one  hand 
caressingly  on  his  shoulder]  —  Eighteen !  Will  you,  for  my  sake, 
make  a  little  poem  out  of  the  two  sentences  I  am  going  to  say  to 
you?  And  will  you  promise  to  repeat  it  to  yourself  whenever  you 
think  of  me? 

Marchbanks  [without  moving]  —  Say  the  sentences. 

Candida  —  When  I  am  thirty,  she  will  be  forty-five.  When  I 
am  sixty,  she  will  be  seventy-five. 

Marchbanks  [turning  to  her]  —  In  a  hundred  years,  we  shall  be 
the  same  age.  But  I  have  a  better  secret  than  that  in  my  heart. 
Let  me  go  now.     The  night  outside  grows  impatient. 

Candida  —  Good-bye.  [She  takes  his  face  in  her  hands;  and  as 
he  divines  her  intention  and  bends  his  knee,  she  kisses  his  forehead.  Then 
he  flies  out  into  the  night.  She  turns  to  Morell,  holding  out  her  arms 
to  him.]  Ah,  James!  [They  embrace.  But  they  do  not  know  the  secret 
in  the  poet's  heart.] 

C^SAR,  THE  SPHINX,  AND  CLEOPATRA 

From  < Caesar  and  Cleopatra.)      Copyright;   published  by  Brentano's,  and  re- 
printed by  their  permission. 

{The  youthful  Cleopatra,   unseen  by  Caesar,  is  sitting  asleep  between  the 
knees  of  the  Sphinx.] 

JULIUS  C^SAR  —  Hail,  Sphinx:  salutation  from  Julius  Caesar! 
I  have  wandered  in  many  lands,  seeking  the  lost  regions  from 
which  my  birth  into  this  world  exiled  me,  and  the  company  of 
creatures,  such  as  I  myself.  I  have  found  flocks  and  pastures,  men  and 
cities  but  no  other  Cassar,  no  air  native  to  me,  no  man  kindred  to  me, 
none  who  can  do  my  day's  deed,  and  think  my  night's  thought.  In  the 
little  world  yonder.  Sphinx,  my  place  is  as  high  as  yours  in  this  great 
desert;  only  I  wander,  and  you  sit  still;  I  conquer,  and  you  endure; 
I  work  and  wonder,  you  watch  and  wait;  I  look  up  and  am  dazzled, 
look  down  and  am  darkened,  look  round  and  am  puzzled,  whilst 
your  eyes  never  turn  from  looking  out  —  out  of  the  world  —  to  the 
lost  region  —  the  home  from  which  we  have  strayed.  Sphinx,  you 
and  I,  strangers  to  the  race  of  men,  are  no  strangers  to  one  another: 
have  I  not  been  conscious  of  you  and  of  this  place  since  I  was  born? 
Rome  is  a  madman's  dream:  this  is  my  Reality.     These  starry  lamps 


GEORGE    BERXARD    SHAW  I3265r 

of  yours  I  have  seen  from  afar  in  Gaul,  in  Britain,  in  Spain,  in  Thes- 
saly,  signaling  great  secrets  to  some  eternal  sentinel  below,  whose 
post  I  never  could  find.  And  here  at  last  is  their  sentinel  —  an  image 
of  the  constant  and  immortal  part  of  my  life,  silent,  full  of  thoughts, 
alone  in  the  silver  desert.  Sphinx,  Sphinx :  I  have  climbed  mountains 
at  night  to  hear  in  the  distance  the  stealthy  footfall  of  the  winds  that 
chase  your  sands  in  forbidden  play  —  our  invisible  children,  0  Sphinx, 
laughing  in  whispers.  My  way  hither  was  the  way  of  destiny;  for 
I  am  he  of  whose  genius  you  are  the  symbol:  part  brute,  part  woman, 
and  part  God  —  nothing  of  man  in  me  at  all.  Have  I  read  your 
riddle,  Sphinx? 

Cleopatra  [who  has  wakened,  and  peeped  cautiously  from  her  nest 
to  see  who  is  speaking]  —  Old  gentleman ! 

CcBsar  [starting  violently,  and  cliitchitig  his  sword]  —  Immortal 
gods! 

Cleopatra  —  Old  gentleman:  don't  run  away. 

CcEsar  [stupefied] — ((Old  gentleman:  don't  run  away!!!))  This! 
to  Julius  Caesar! 

Cleopatra  [urgently]  —  Old  gentleman. 

Ccesar  —  Sphinx:  you  presume  on  your  centuries.  I  am  younger 
than  j^ou,  though  your  voice  is  but  a  girl's  voice  as  yet. 

Cleopatra  —  Climb  up  here,  quickly;  or  the  Romans  will  come 
and  eat  you. 

CcBsar  [running  forward  past  the  Sphinx's  shoulder,  and  seeing  her] 
—  A  child  at  its  breast!  divine  child! 

Cleopatra  —  Come  up  quickly.  You  must  get  up  at  its  side  and 
creep  round. 

CcBsar  [atnazed]  —  Who  are  you  ? 

Cleopatra  —  Cleopatra,  Queen  of  Egypt. 

Caesar  —  Queen  of  the  Gypsies,  you  mean. 


THE  WOMAN  TRIUMPHS 

From  <Man  and  Superman.)     Copyright;  published  by  Brentano's,  and  reprinted 

by  their  permission. 

MENDOZA  [advancing    between     Violet    and    Tanner]  —  Sir :  there 
are  two  tragedies  in  life.   One  is  not  to  get  your  heart's  desire. 
The  other  is  to  get  it.     Mine  and  yours,  sir. 
Tanner  —  Mr.    Mendoza:  I    have  no  heart's   desires.     Ramsden 
it  is  very  easy  for  you  to  call  me  a  happy  man:  you  are  only  a  specta- 


13265s  GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

tor.  r  am  one  of  the  principals;  and  I  know  better.  Ann:  stop 
tempting  Tavy,  and  come  back  to  me. 

Ann  [complying]  —  You  are  absurd,  Jack.  [She  takes  his  prof- 
fer red  arm.] 

Tanner  [continuing]  —  I  solemnly  say  that  I  am  not  a  happy  man. 
Ann  looks  happy;  but  she  is  only  triumphant,  successful,  victorious. 
That  is  not  happiness,  but  the  price  for  which  the  strong  sell  their 
happiness.  What  we  have  both  done  this  afternoon  is  to  renounce 
happiness,  renounce  freedom,  renounce  tranquillity,  above  all,  re- 
nounce the  romantic  possibilities  of  an  unknown  future,  for  the  cares  of 
a  household  and  a  family.  I  beg  that  no  man  may  seize  the  occasion 
to  get  half  drunk  and  utter  imbecile  speeches  and  coarse  pleasant- 
ries at  my  expense.  We  propose  to  furnish  our  own  house  according 
to  our  own  taste;  and  I  hereby  give  notice  that  the  seven  or 
eight  traveling  clocks,  the  four  or  five  dressing  cases,  the  salad  bowls, 
the  carvers  and  fish  slicers,  the  copy  of  Tennyson  in  extra  morocco, 
and  all  the  other  articles  you  are  preparing  to  heap  upon  us,  will  be 
instantly  sold,  and  the  proceeds  devoted  to  circulating  free  copies 
of  the  Revolutionist's  Handbook.  The  wedding  will  take  place  three 
days  after  our  return  to  England,  by  special  license,  at  the  office  of 
the  district  superintendent  registrar,  in  the  presence  of  my  solicitor 
and  his  clerk,  who,  like  his  clients,  will  be  in  ordinary  walking 
dress  

Violet  [ivith  intense  conviction]  —  You  are  a  brute.  Jack. 

Ann  [looking  at  him  with  fond  pride  and  caressing  his  arm]  —  Never 
mind  her,  dear.     Go  on  talking. 

Tanner  —  Talking! 

[Universal  laughter.] 


ENGLISHMAN    AND    IRISHMAN 

From  (John  Bull's  Other  Island.)      Copyright;  published  by  Brentano's,  and  re- 
printed by  their  permission. 

K BEGAN  [with  a  courteous  inclination]  —  The  conquering  English- 
man, sir.     Within  twenty-four  hours  of  your  arrival  you  have 
carried  off  our  only  heiress,  and  practically  secured  the  par- 
liamentary seat.     And  you  have  promised  me  that  when  I  come  here 
in  the  evenings,  to  meditate  on  my  madness;  to  watch  the  shadow 
of  the  round  tower  lengthening  in  the  sunset;  to  break  my  heart 


GEORGE   BERNARD    SHAW  1 32651 

uselessly  in  the  curtained  gloaming  over  the  dead  heart  and  blinded 
soul  of  the  island  of  the  saints,  you  will  comfort  me  with  the  bustle 
of  a  great  hotel,  and  the  sight  of  the  little  children  carrying  the  golf 
clubs  of  your  tourists  as  a  preparation  for  the  life  to  come. 

Broadbent  [quite  touched,  mutely  offering  him  a  cigar  to  console  him, 
at  which  he  smiles  and  shakes  his  head]  —  Yes,  Mr.  Keegan :  you're 
quite  right.  There's  poetry  in  everything,  even  [looking  absently 
into  the  cigar  case]  in  the  most  modern  prosaic  things,  if  you  know  how 
to  extract  it.  [He  extracts  a  cigar  for  himself  and  offers  one  to  Larry, 
who  takes  it.]  If  I  was  to  be  shot  for  it  I  couldn't  extract  it  myself; 
but  that's  where  you  come  in,  you  see  [roguishly,  waking  up  from  his 
reverie  and  bustling  Keegan  good-humoredly].  And  then  I  shall  wake 
you  up  a  bit.  That's  where  I  come  in:  eh?  d'ye  see?  Eh?  eh? 
[He  pats  him  very  pleasantly  on  the  shoulder,  half  admiringly,  half  pity- 
ingly.] Just  so,  just  so.  [Coming  back  to  business.]  By  the  way, 
I  believe  I  can  do  better  than  a  light  railway  here.  There  seems  to 
be  no  question  now  that  the  motor  boat  has  come  to  stay.  Well, 
look  at  your  magnificent  river  there,  going  to  waste. 

Keegan  [closing  his  eyes]  —  ((Silent,  O  Moyle,  be  the  roar  of  thy 
waters.)) 

Broadbent  —  You  know,  the  roar  of  a  motor  boat  is  quite  pretty. 

Keegan  —  Provided  it  does  not  drown  the  Angelus. 

Broadbent  [reassuringly]  —  Oh  no:  it  won't  do  that:  not  the 
least  danger.  You  know,  a  church  bell  can  make  a  devil  of  a  noise 
when  it  likes. 

Keegan  —  You  have  an  answer  for  everything,  sir.  But  your 
plans  leave  our  question  still  unanswered:  how  to  get  butter  out  of  a 
dog's  throat. 

Broadbent  —  Eh? 

Keegan  —  You  cannot  build  your  golf  links  and  hotels  in  the  air. 
For  that  you  must  own  our  land.  And  how  will  you  drag  our  acres 
from  the  ferret's  grip  of  Matthew  HafFigan?  How  will  you  persuade 
Cornelius  Doyle  to  forego  the  pride  of  being  a  small  landowner? 
How  will  Barney  Doran's  millrace  agree  with  your  motor  boats? 
Will  Doolan  help  you  to  get  a  license  for  your  hotel  ? 

Broadbent  —  My  dear  sir:  to  all  intents  and  purposes  the  syndi- 
cate I  represent  already  owns  half  Rosscullen.  Doolan's  is  a  tied 
house;  and  the  brewers  are  in  the  syndicate.  As  to  Haffigan's  farm 
and  Doran's  mill  and  Mr.  Doyle's  place  and  half  a  dozen  others, 
they  will  be  mortgaged  to  me  before  a  month  is  out. 

Keegan  —  But  pardon  me,  you  will  not  lend  them  more  on  their 


1326511  GEORGE   BERNARD    SHAW 

land  than  the  land  is  worth;  so  they  will  be  able  to  pay  you  the 
interest. 

Broadbent  —  Ah,  you  are  a  poet,  Mr.  Keegan,  not  a  man  of  busi- 
ness. 

Larry  —  We  will  lend  every  one  of  these  men  half  as  much  again 
on  their  land  as  it  is  worth,  or  ever  can  be  worth,  to  them. 

Broadbent  —  You  forget,  sir,  that  we,  with  our  capital,  our  knowl- 
edge, our  organization,  and  may  I  say  our  English  business  habits, 
can  make  or  lose  ten  pounds  out  of  land  that  Hafhgan,  with  all  his 
industry,  could  not  make  or  lose  ten  shillings  out  of.  Doran's  mill 
is  a  superannuated  folly:  I  shall  want  it  for  electric  lighting. 

Larry  —  What  is  the  use  of  giving  land  to  such  men  ?  They 
are  too  small,  too  poor,  too  ignorant,  too  simple-minded  to  hold  it 
against  us:  you  might  as  well  give  a  dukedom  to  a  crossing  sweeper. 

Broadbent  —  Yes,  Mr.  Keegan :  this  place  may  have  an  industrial 
future,  or  it  may  have  a  residential  future:  I  can't  tell  yet;  but  it's  not 
going  to  be  a  future  in  the  hands  of  your  Dorans  and  Haffigans,  poor 
devils ! 

Keegan  —  It  may  have  no  future  at  all.  Have  you  thought  of 
that? 

Broadbent  —  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  that.  I  have  faith  in  Ireland, 
great  faith,  Mr.  Keegan. 

Keegan  —  And  we  have  none :  only  empty  enthusiasms  and 
patriotisms,  and  emptier  memories  and  regrets.  Ah  yes:  you  have 
some  excuse  for  believing  that  if  there  be  any  future,  it  will  be  yours; 
for  our  faith  seems  dead,  and  our  hearts  cold  and  cowed.  An  island 
of  dreamers  who  wake  up  in  your  jails,  of  critics  and  cowards  whom 
you  buy  and  tame  for  your  own  service,  of  bold  rogues  who  help 
you  to  plunder  us  that  they  may  plunder  you  afterwards.     Eh  ? 

Broadbent  [a  little  impatient  of  this  unbusinesslike  view]  —  Yes, 
yes;  but  you  know  you  might  say  that  of  any  country.  The  fact  is, 
there  are  only  two  qualities  in  the  world:  efficiency  and  inefficiency, 
and  only  two  sorts  of  people:  the  efficient  and  the  inefficient.  It 
doesn't  matter  whether  they're  English  or  Irish.  I  shall  collar  this 
place,  not  because  I'm  an  Englishman  and  Haffigan  and  Co.  are  Irish- 
men, but  because  they're  duffers  and  I  know  my  vway  about. 

Keegan  —  Have  you  considered  what  is  to  become  of  Haffigan  ? 

Larry  —  Oh,  we'll  employ  him  in  some  capacity  or  other,  and 
probably  pay  him  more  than  he  makes  for  himself  now. 

Broadbent  [dubiously]  —  Do  you  think  so?  No,  no.  Haffigan's  too 
old.     It  really  doesn't  pay  now  to  take  on  men  over  forty,  even  for 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW  1 32 65  V 

unskilled  labor,  which  I  suppose  is  all  Haffigan  would  be  good  for. 
No:  Haffigan  had  better  go  to  America,  or  into  the  Union,  poor  old 
chap!     He's  worked  out,  you  know:  you  can  see  it. 

Keegan  —  Poor  lost  soul,  so  cunningly  fenced  in  with  invisible 
bars! 

Larry  —  Haffigan  doesn't  matter  much.     He'll  die  presently. 

Broadbent  [sJiocked]  —  Oh  come,  Larry!  Don't  be  unfeeling. 
It's  hard  on  Haffigan.     It's  always  hard  on  the  inefficient. 

Larry  —  Pah !  what  does  it  matter  where  an  old  and  broken  man 
spends  his  last  days,  or  whether  he  has  a  million  at  the  bank  or  only 
the  workhouse  dole?  It's  the  young  men,  the  able  men,  that  matter. 
The  real  tragedy  of  Haffigan  is  the  tragedy  of  his  wasted  youth,  his 
stunted  mind,  his  drudging  over  his  clods  and  pigs  until  he  has  become 
a  clod  and  a  pig  himself  —  until  the  soul  within  him  has  smol- 
dered into  nothing  but  a  dull  temper  that  hurts  himself  and  all  around 
him.  I  say  let  him  die,  and  let  us  have  no  more  of  his  like.  And  let 
young  Ireland  take  care  that  it  doesn't  share  his  fate,  instead  of 
making  another  empty  grievance  of  it.    Let  your  syndicate  come 

Broadbent  —  Your  syndicate  too,  old  chap.  You  have  your  bit 
of  the  stock. 

Larry  —  Yes,  mine  if  you  like.  Well,  our  syndicate  has  no  con- 
science: it  has  no  more  regard  for  your  Haffigans  and  Doolans  and 
Dorans  than  it  has  for  a  gang  of  Chinese  coolies.  It  will  use  your 
patriotic  blatherskite  and  balderdash  to  get  parliamentary  powers 
over  you  as  cynically  as  it  would  bait  a  mousetrap  with  toasted  cheese. 
It  will  plan,  and  organize,  and  find  capital  while  you  slave  like  bees 
for  it  and  revenge  yourselves  by  paying  politicians  and  penn}^  news- 
papers out  of  your  small  wages  to  write  articles  and  report  speeches 
against  its  wickedness  and  tyranny,  and  to  crack  up  your  own  Irish 
heroism,  just  as  Haffigan  once  paid  a  witch  a  penny  to  put  a  spell  on 
Billy  Byrne's  cow.  In  the  end  it  will  grind  the  nonsense  out  of  you, 
and  grind  strength  and  sense  into  you. 

Broadbent  [out  of  patience]  —  Why  can't  you  say  a  simple  thing 
simply,  Larry,  without  all  that  Irish  exaggeration  and  talky-talky? 
The  syndicate  is  a  perfectly  respectable  body  of  responsible  men  of 
good  position.  We'll  take  Ireland  in  hand,  and  by  straightforward 
business  habits  teach  it  efficiency  and  self-help  on  sound  Liberal  prin- 
ciples.    You  agree  with  me,  Mr.  Keegan,  don't  you? 

Keegan  —  Sir :  I  may  even  vote  for  you. 

Broadbent  [sincerely  moved,  shaking  his  hand  warmly]  —  You  shall 
never  regret  it,  Mr.  Keegan:  I  give  you  my  word  for  that.     I  shall 


13265 w  GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

bring  money  here:  I  shall  raise  wages:  I  shall  found  public  institu- 
tions, a  library,  a  Polytechnic  (undenominational,  of  course),  a  gymna- 
sium, a  cricket  club,  perhaps  an  art  school.  I  shall  make  a  Garden 
city  of  Rosscullen:  the  round  tower  shall  be  thoroughly  repaired  and 
restored. 

Keegan  —  And  our  place  of  torment  shall  be  as  clean  and  orderly 
as  the  cleanest  and  most  orderly  place  I  know  in  Ireland,  which  is 
our  poetically  named  Mount-joy  prison.  Well,  perhaps  I  had  better 
vote  for  an  efificient  devil  that  knows  his  own  mind  and  his  own 
business  than  for  a  foolish  patriot  who  has  no  mind  and  no  business. 

Broadhent  [stiffly]  —  Devil  is  rather  a  strong  expression  in  that 
connection,  Mr.  Keegan. 

Keegan  —  Not  from  a  man  who  knows  that  this  world  is  hell. 
But  since  the  word  offends  you,  let  me  soften  it,  and  compare  you 
simply  to  an  ass.     [Larry  whitens  with  anger.] 

Broadbent  [redde?iing]  —  An  ass ! 

Keegan  [gently]  —  You  may  take  it  without  offense  from  a  mad- 
man who  calls  the  ass  his  brother  —  and  a  very  honest,  useful,  and 
faithful  brother  too.  The  ass,  sir,  is  the  most  efficient  of  beasts, 
matter-of-fact,  hardy,  friendly  when  you  treat  him  as  a  fellow-creature, 
stvibborn  when  you  abuse  him,  ridiculous  only  in  love,  which  sets 
him  braying,  and  in  politics,  which  move  him  to  roll  about  in  the 
public  road  and  raise  a  dust  about  nothing.  Can  you  deny  these 
qualities  and  habits  in  yourself,  sir? 

Broadbent  [good  humoredly]  —  Well,  yes,  I'm  afraid  I  do,  you  know. 

Keegan  —  Then  perhaps  you  will  confess  to  the  ass's  one  fault. 

Broadbent  —  Perhaps  so:  what  is  it? 

Keegan  —  That  he  wastes  all  his  virtues  —  his  efficiency,  as  you 
call  it  —  in  doing  the  will  of  his  greedy  masters  instead  of  doing  the 
will  of  Heaven  that  is  in  himself.  He  is  efficient  in  the  service  of 
Mammon,  mighty  in  mischief,  skillful  in  ruin,  heroic  in  destruction. 
But  he  comes  to  browse  here  without  knowing  that  the  soil  his  hoof 
touches  is  holy  ground.  Ireland,  sir,  for  good  or  evil,  is  like  no  other 
place  under  heaven;  and  no  man  can  touch  its  sod  or  breathe  its  air 
without  becoming  better  or  worse.  It  produces  two  kinds  of  men 
in  strange  perfection:  saints  and  traitors.  It  is  called  the  island  of 
the  saints :  but  indeed  in  these  later  years  it  might  be  more  fitly  called 
the  island  of  the  traitors;  for  our  harvest  of  these  is  the  fine  flower 
of  the  world's  crop  of  infamy.  But  the  day  may  come  when  these 
islands  shall  live  by  the  quality  of  their  men  rather  than  by  the  abun- 
dance of  their  minerals;  and  then  we  shall  see. 


GEORGE    BERNARD    SHAW  I3265X 

Larry  —  Wr.  Keegan:  if  you  are  going  to  be  sentimental  about 
Ireland,  I  shall  bid  you  good-evening.  We  have  had  enough  of  that, 
and  more  than  enough  of  cleverly  proving  that  everybody  who  is  not 
an  Irishman  is  an  ass.  It  is  neither  good  sense  nor  good  manners. 
It  will  not  stop  the  syndicate ;  and  it  will  not  interest  young  Ireland 
so  much  as  my  friend's  gospel  of  efficiency. 

Broadbent  —  Ah,  yes,  yes:  efficiency  is  the  thing.  I  don't  in  the 
least  mind  your  chaff,  Mr.  Keegan;  but  Larry's  right  on  the  main 
point.     The  world  belongs  to  the  efficient. 

Keegan  [with  polished  irony]  —  I  stand  rebuked,  gentlemen. 
But  believe  me,  I  do  every  justice  to  the  eflicienc}^  of  you  and  your 
syndicate.  You  are  both,  I  am  told,  thoroughly  efficient  civil  engi- 
neers; and  I  have  no  doubt  the  golf  links  will  be  a  triumph  of  your 
art.  Mr.  Broadbent  will  get  into  parliament  most  efficiently,  which 
is  more  than  St.  Patrick  could  do  if  he  were  alive  now.  You  may 
even  build  the  hotel  efficiently  if  you  can  find  enough  efficient  masons, 
carpenters,  and  plumbers,  which  I  rather  doubt.  [Dropping  his 
irony,  and  beginning  to  fall  into  the  attitude  of  the  priest  rebuking  sin.] 
When  the  hotel  becomes  insolvent  [Broadbent  takes  his  cigar  out  of 
his  mouth,  a  little  taken  aback],  your  English  business  habits  will  secure 
the  thorough  efficiency  of  the  liquidation.  You  will  reorganize  the 
scheme  efficiently ;  you  will  liquidate  its  second  bankruptcy  efficiently 
[Broadbent  and  Larry  look  quickly  at  one  another;  for  this,  sinless  the 
priest  is  an  old  financial  hand,  must  be  inspiration] ;  you  will  get  rid  of 
its  original  shareholders  efficiently  after  efficiently  ruining  them; 
and  you  will  finally  profit  very  efficiently  by  getting  that  hotel  for  a 
few  shillings  in  the  pound.  [More  and  more  sternly.]  Besides  these 
efficient  operations,  you  will  foreclose  your  mortgages  most  efficiently 
[his  rebuking  forefinger  goes  up  in  spite  of  himself];  you  will  drive 
Ilaffigan  to  America  very  efficiently;  you  will  find  a  use  for  Barney 
Doran's  foul  mouth  and  bullying  temper  by  emplojdng  him  to  slave- 
drive  your  laborers  very  efficiently;  and  [lozo  and  bitter]  when  at 
last  this  poor  desolate  countryside  becomes  a  busy  mint  in  whicli 
we  shall  all  slave  to  make  money  for  you,  with  our  Polytechnic  to 
teach  us  how  to  do  it  efficiently,  and  our  library  to  fuddle  the  few 
imaginations  your  distilleries  will  spare,  and  our  repaired  round 
tower  with  admission  sixpence,  and  refreshments  and  penny-in-the- 
slot  mutoscopes  to  make  it  interesting,  then  no  doubt  your  English 
and  American  shareholders  will  spend  all  the  money  we  make  for 
them  very  efficiently  in  shooting  and  hunting,  in  operations  for 
cancer   and   appendicitis,   in   gluttony   and   gambling;  and   you  will 


132657  GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

devote  what  they  save  to  fresh  land  development  schemes.  For 
four  wicked  centuries  the  world  has  dreamed  this  foolish  dream  of 
efficiency;  and  the  end  is  not  yet.     But  the  end  will  come, 

Broadhent  [seriously]  —  Too  true,  Mr.  Keegan,  only  too  true. 
And  most  eloquently  put.  It  reminds  me  of  poor  Ruskin  —  a  great 
man,  you  know.  I  sympathize.  Believe  me,  I'm  on  your  side. 
Don't  sneer,  Larry:  I  used  to  read  a  lot  of  Shelley  years  ago.  Let 
us  be  faithful  to  the  dreams  of  our  youth.  [Tie  wafts  a  wreath  of  cigar 
smoke  at  large  across  the  hill.] 

Keegan  —  Come,  Mr.  Doyle !  is  this  English  sentiment  so  much 
more  efficient  than  our  Irish  sentiment,  after  all?  Mr.  Broadbent 
spends  his  life  inefficiently  admiring  the  thoughts  of  great  men,  and 
efficiently  serving  the  cupidity  of  base  money  hunters.  We  spend 
our  lives  efficiently  sneering  at  him  and  doing  nothing.  Which  of 
us  has  any  right  to  reproach  the  other? 

Broadbent  [comiyig  down  the  hill  again  to  Keegan' s  right  hand]  — 
But  you  know,  something  must  be  done. 

Keegan  —  Yes:  when  we  cease  to  do,  we  cease  to  live.  Well, 
what  shall  we  do? 

Broadbent  —  Why,  what  lies  to  our  hand. 

Keegan  —  Which  is  the  making  of  golf  links  and  hotels  to  bring 
idlers  to  a  country  which  workers  have  left  in  millions  because  it  is  a 
hungry  land,  a  naked  land,  an  ignorant  and  oppressed  land. 

Broadbent  —  But,  hang  it  all,  the  idlers  will  bring  money  from 
England  to  Ireland! 

Keegan  —  Just  as  our  idlers  have  for  so  many  generations  taken 
money  from  Ireland  to  England.  Has  that  saved  England  from 
poverty  and  degradation  more  horrible  than  we  have  ever  dreamed 
of?  When  I  went  to  England,  sir,  I  hated  England.  Now  I  pity  it. 
[Broadbent  caw  hardly  conceive  an  Irishman  pitying  England ;  hut  as 
Larry  intervenes  angrily,  he  gives  it  up  and  takes  to  the  hill  and  his 
cigar  again.] 

Larry  —  Much  good  your  pity  will  do  it ! 

Keegan  —  In  the  accounts  kept  in  heaven,  Mr.  Doyle,  a  heart 
purified  of  hatred  may  be  worth  more  even  than  a  Land  Development 
Syndicate  of  Anglicized  Irishmen  and  Gladstonized  Englishmen. 

Larry  —  Oh,  in  heaven,  no  doubt!  I  have  never  been  there. 
Can  you  tell  me  where  it  is  ? 

Keegan  —  Could  you  have  told  me  this  morning  where  hell  is  ? 
Yet  you  know  now  that  it  is  here.  Do  not  despair  of  finding  heaven : 
it  may  be  no  farther  off. 


GEORGE    BERNARD    SHAW  I3265Z 

Larry  [ironically]  —  On  this  holy  ground,  as  you  call  it,  eh  ? 

Keegan  [with  fierce  intensity]  —  Yes,  perhaps,  even  on  this  holy 
ground  which  such  Irishmen  as  you  have  turned  into  a  Land  of 
Derision. 

Broadbent  [coming  between  them]  —  Take  care !  you  will  be  quar- 
reling presently.  Oh,  you  Irishmen,  you  Irishmen!  Toujours 
Ballyhooly,  eh?  [Larry,  with  a  shrug,  half  comic,  half  impatient,  turns 
away  up  the  hill,  but  presently  strolls  back  on  Keegan's  right.  Broad- 
bent  adds,  confidentially  to  Keegan.]  Stick  to  the  Englishman,  Mr. 
Keegan:  he  has  a  bad  name  here;  but  at  least  he  can  forgive  you 
for  being  an  Irishman. 

Keegan  —  Sir :  when  you  speak  to  me  of  English  and  Irish  you 
forget  that  I  am  a  Catholic.  My  country  is  not  Ireland,  nor  England, 
but  the  whole  mighty  realm  of  my  Church.  For  me  there  are  but 
two  countries:  heaven  and  hell;  but  two  conditions  of  men:  salva- 
tion and  damnation.  Standing  here  between  you,  the  Englishman, 
so  clever  in  your  foolishness,  and  this  Irishman,  so  foolish  in  his  clever- 
ness, I  cannot  in  my  ignorance  be  sure  which  of  you  is  the  more 
deeply  damned;  but  I  should  be  unfaithful  to  my  calling  if  I  opened 
the  gates  of  my  heart  less  widely  to  one  than  to  the  other. 

Larry  —  In  either  case  it  would  be  an  impertinence,  Mr.  Keegan, 
as  your  approval  is  not  of  the  slightest  consequence  to  us.  What  use 
do  you  suppose  all  this  drivel  is  to  men  with  serious  practical  business 
in  hand? 

Broadbent  —  I  don't  agree  with  that,  Larry.  I  think  these  things 
cannot  be  said  too  often:  they  keep  up  the  moral  tone  of  the  com- 
munity. As  you  know,  I  claim  the  right  to  think  myself,  a  bit  of 
a  —  of  a  —  well,  I  don't  care  who  knows  it  —  a  bit  of  a  Unitarian; 
but  if  the  Church  of  England  contained  a  few  men  like  Mr.  Keegan, 
I  should  certainly  join  it. 

Keega?i  —  You  do  me  too  much  honor,  sir.  [117//^  priestly  humil- 
ity to  Larry.]  Mr.  Doyle:  I  am  to  blame  for  having  unintentionally 
set  your  mind  somewhat  on  edge  against  me.     I  beg  your  pardon. 

Larry  [unimpressed  and  hostile]  —  I  didn't  stand  on  ceremony 
with  you:  you  needn't  stand  on  it  with  me.  Fine  manners  and  fine 
words  are  cheap  in  Ireland:  you  can  keep  both  for  my  friend  here, 
who  is  still  imposed  on  by  them.     I  know  their  value. 

Keegan  —  You  mean  you  don't  know  their  value. 

Larry  [angrily]  —  I  mean  what  I  say. 

Keegan  [turning  quietly  to  the  Englishman]  —  You  see,  Mr.  Broad- 
bent, I  only  make  the  hearts  of  my  countrymen  harder  when  I  preach 


13266  GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

to  them:  the  gates  of  hell  still  prevail  against  me.  I  shall  wish  you 
good-evening.  I  am  better  alone,  at  the  round  tower,  dreaming  of 
heaven.     [He  goes  up  the  hill.] 

Larry  —  Aye,  that's  it!  there  you  are!  dreaming,  dreaming, 
dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming! 

Keegan  [halting  and  turning  to  them  for  the  last  time]  —  Every 
dream  is  a  prophecy:  every  jest  is  an  earnest  in  the  womb  of  Time. 

Broadbent  [reflectively]  —  Once,  when  I  was  a  small  kid,  I  dreamt 
I  was  in  heaven.  [They  both  stare  at  him.]  It  was  a  sort  of  pale  blue 
satin  place,  with  all  the  pious  old  ladies  in  our  congregation  sitting 
as  if  they  were  at  a  service;  and  there  was  some  awful  person  in  the 
study  at  the  other  side  of  the  hall.  "^  didn't  enjoy  it,  you  know. 
What  is  it  like  in  your  dreams? 

Keegan  —  In  my  dreams  it  is  a  country  where  the  State  is  one 
Church  and  the  Church  the  people:  three  in  one  and  one  in  three. 
It  is  a  commonwealth  in  which  work  is  play  and  play  is  life:  three  in 
one  and  one  in  three.  It  is  a  temple  in  which  the  priest  is  the  wor- 
shiper and  the  worshiper  the  worshiped;  three  in  one  and  one  in 
three.  It  is  a  godhead  in  which  all  life  is  human  and  all  humanity 
divine:  three  in  one  and  one  in  three.  It  is,  in  short,  the  dream  of 
a  madman.     [He  goes  away  across  the  hill.] 

Broadbent  [looking  after  him  affectionately]  —  What  a  regular  old 
Church  and  State  Tory  he  is!  He's  a  character:  he'll  be  an  attrac- 
tion here.     Really  almost  equal  to  Ruskin  and  Carlyle. 

Larry  —  Yes;  and  much  good  they  did  with  all  their  talk! 

Broadbent  —  Oh  tut,  tut,  Larry!  They  improved  my  mind: 
they  raised  my  tone  enormously.  I  feel  sincerely  obliged  to  Keegan: 
he  has  made  me  feel  a  better  man:  distinctly  better.  [With  sincere 
elevation.]  I  feel  now  as  I  never  did  before  that  I  am  right  in  devot- 
ing miy  life  to  the  cause  of  Ireland.  Come  along  and  help  me  to  choose 
the  site  for  the  hotel. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  ARTIST 

From    (The   Doctor's    Dilemma.)      Copyright;   published   by   Brentano's,  and   re- 
printed by  their  permission. 

[The  Newspaper  Man  quickly  sits  down  on  the  piano  stool  as  Louis  Dube- 
dat,  in  an  invalid's  chair,  is  wheeled  in  by  Mrs.  Dubedat  and  Sir 
Ralph.  They  place  the  chair  between  the  dais  and  the  sofa,  where 
the  easel  stood  before.  Louis  is  not  changed,  as  a  robust  man  would 
be;  and  he  is  not  scared.      His  eyes  look  larger;  and  he  is  so  weak 


GEORGE    BERNARD   SHAW  13266a 

physically  that  he  can  hardly  move,  lying  on  his  cushions  with  com- 
plete languor;  but  his  mind  is  active;  it  is  making  the  most  of  his  con- 
dition, finding  voluptuousness  in  languor  and  drama  in  death.  They 
arc  all  impressed,  in  spite  of  themselves,  except  Ridgeon,  who  is 
implacable.  B.  B.  is  entirely  sympathetic  and  forgiving.  Ridgeon 
follows  the  chair  with  a  tray  of  milk  and  stimulants.  Sir  Patrick, 
who  accompanies  him,  takes  the  tea-table  from  the  corner  and 
places  it  behind  the  chair  for  the  tray.  B.  B.  takes  the  easel  chair 
and  places  it  for  Jennifer  at  Dubedat's  side,  next  the  dais,  from 
which  the  lay  figure  ogles  the  dying  artist.  B.  B.  then  returns  to 
Dubedat's  left.  Jennifer  sits.  Walpole  sits  down  on  the  edge  of 
the  dais.      Ridgeon  stands  near  him.] 

LO'Jis  [blissfully]  —  That's  happiness.     To  be  in  a  studio!     Hap- 
piness ! 

Mrs.  Diihedat  —  Yes,  dear.     Sir  Patrick  says  you  may  stay 
here  as  long  as  you  like. 

Louis  [to  his  wife]  —  Jennifer. 

Mrs.  Diihedat  —  Yes,  my  darling. 

Louis  —  Is  the  newspaper  man  here? 

The  Newspaper  Man  [glibly]  —  Yes,  Mr.  Dubedat:  I'm  here, 
at  your  service.  I  represent  the  press.  I  thought  you  might  like 
to  let  us  have  a  few  words  about  —  about  —  er  —  well,  a  few  words 
on  your  illness,  and  your  j^lans  for  the  season. 

Louis  —  My  plans  for  the  season  are  very  simple.     I'm  going  to  die. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  [tortured]  —  Louis  —  dearest 

Louis  —  My  darling:  I'm  very  weak  and  tired.  Don't  put  on 
me  the  horrible  strain  of  pretending  that  I  don't  know.  I've  been 
lying  there  listening  to  the  doctors  —  laughing  to  mj^self.  They 
know.  Dearest:  don't  cry.  It  makes  you  ugly;  and  I  can't  bear 
that.  [She  dries  her  eyes  and  recovers  herself  with  a  proud  effort.]  I 
want  you  to  promise  me  something. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  Yes,  yes:  3'ou  know  I  will.  [Imploringly.] 
Only,  my  love,  my  love,  don't  talk:  it  will  waste  your  strength. 

Louis  —  No:  it  will  only  use  it  up.  Ridgeon:  give  me  something 
to  keep  me  going  for  a  few  minutes  —  not  one  of  j^our  confounded 
anti-toxins,  if  you  don't  mind.     I  have  some  things  to  say  before  I  go. 

Ridgeon  [looking  at  Sir  Patrick]  —  I  suppose  it  can  do  no  harm? 
[He  pours  out  sotnc  spirit,  and  is  about  to  add  sodawater  when  Sir  Patrick 
corrects  him.] 

Sir  Pdtrick  —  In  milk.     Don't  set  him  coughing. 

Louis  [after  drinking]  —  Jennifer. 


13266b  GEORGE   BERNARD   SHAW 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  Yes,  dear. 

Louis  —  If  there's  one  thing  I  hate  more  than  another,  it's  a 
widow.     Promise  me  that  you'll  never  be  a  widow. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  My  dear,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Louis  —  I  want  you  to  look  beautiful.  I  want  people  to  see  in 
your  eyes  that  you  were  married  to  me.  The  people  in  Italy  used 
to  point  at  Dante  and  say,  ((There  goes  the  man  who  has  been  in  hell.)) 
I  want  them  to  point  at  you  and  say,  ((There  goes  a  woman  who  has 
been  in  heaven.))     It  has  been  heaven,  darling,  hasn't  it  —  sometimes? 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  Oh  yes,  yes.     Always,  always. 

Louis  —  If  you  wear  black  and  cry,  people  will  say,  ((Look  at  that 
miserable  woman:  her  husband  made  her  miserable.)) 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  No,  never.  You  are  the  light  and  the  blessing 
of  my  life.     I  never  lived  until  I  knew  you, 

Louis  [his  eyes  glistening]  —  Then  you  must  always  wear  beautiful 
dresses  and  splendid  magic  jewels.  Think  of  all  the  wonderful  pic- 
tures I  shall  never  paint.  [She  wins  a  terrible  victory  over  a  sob.]  Well, 
you  must  be  transfigured  with  all  the  beauty  of  those  pictures.  Men 
must  get  such  dreams  from  seeing  you  as  they  never  could  get  from 
any  daubing  with  paints  and  brushes.  Painters  must  paint  you  as 
they  never  painted  any  mortal  woman  before.  There  must  be  a 
great  tradition  of  beauty,  a  great  atmosphere  of  wonder  and  romance. 
That  is  what  men  must  always  think  of  when  they  think  of  me. 
That  is  the  sort  of  immortality  I  want.  You  can  make  that  for  me, 
Jennifer.  There  are  lots  of  things  you  don't  understand  that  every 
woman  in  the  street  understands;  but  you  can  understand  that 
and  do  it  as  nobody  else  can.  Promise  me  that  immortality.  Prom- 
ise me  you  will  not  make  a  little  hell  of  crape  and  crying  and  under- 
taker's horrors  and  withering  flowers  and  all  that  vulgar  rubbish. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  I  promise.  But  all  that  is  far  off,  dear.  You 
are  to  come  to  Cornwall  with  me  and  get  well.     Sir  Ralph  says  so. 

Louis  —  Poor  old  B.  B. 

B.  B.  [affected  to  tears,  turns  away  and  whispers  to  Sir  Patrick]  — 
Poor  fellow !     Brain  going. 

Louis  —  Sir  Patrick's  there,  isn't  he? 

Sir  Patrick  —  Yes,  yes.     I'm  here. 

Louis  —  Sit  down,  won't  you?  It's  a  shame  to  keep  you  standing 
about. 

Sir  Patrick  —  Yes,  yes.     Thank  you.     All  right. 

Louis  —  Jennifer. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  Yes,  dear. 


GEORGE    BERNARD    SHAW  13266c 

Louis  [with  a  strange  look  of  delight]  —  Do  you  remember  the  burn- 
ing bush? 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  Yes,  yes.  Oh,  my  dear,  how  it  strains  my  heart 
to  remember  it  now! 

Louis  —  Does  it?     It  fills  me  with  joy.     Tell  them  about  it. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  It  was  nothing  —  only  that  once  in  my  old  Corn- 
ish home  we  lit  the  first  fire  of  the  winter ;  and  when  we  looked  through 
the  window  we  saw  the  flames  dancing  in  a  bush  in  the  garden. 

Louis  —  Such  a  color !  Garnet  color.  Waving  like  silk.  Liquid 
lovely  flame  flowing  up  through  the  bay  leaves,  and  not  burning  them. 
Well,  I  shall  be  a  flame  like  that.  I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  the  poor 
little  worms;  but  the  last  of  me  shall  be  the  flame  in  the  burning 
bush.  Whenever  you  see  the  flame,  Jennifer,  that  will  be  me.  Prom- 
ise me  that  I  shall  be  burnt. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  Oh,  if  I  might  be  with  you,  Louis! 

Louis  —  No:  you  must  always  be  in  the  garden  when  the  bush 
flames.  You  are  my  hold  on  the  world:  you  are  my  immortality. 
Promise. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  I'm  listening.  I  shall  not  forget.  You  know 
that  I  promise. 

Louis  —  Well,  that's  about  all ;  except  that  you  are  to  hang  my 
pictures  at  the  one-man  show.  I  can  trust  your  eye.  You  won't 
let  anyone  else  touch  them. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  You  can  trust  me. 

Louis  —  Then  there's  nothing  more  to  worry  about,  is  there  ? 
Give  me  some  more  of  that  milk.  I'm  fearfully  tired;  but  if  I  stop 
talking  I  shan't  begin  again.  [Sir  Ralph  gives  him  a  drink.  lie  takes 
it  and  looks  up  quaintly.]  I  say  B.  B.,  do -you  think  anything  would 
stop  you  talking? 

B.  B.  [almost  unmanned]  —  lie  confuses  me  with  you,  Paddy. 
Poor  fellow !     Poor  fellow ! 

Louis  [musing]  —  I  used  to  be  awfully  afraid  of  death:  but  now 
it's  come,  I  have  no  fear;  and  I'm  perfectly  happy.     Jennifer. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  Yes,  dear? 

Louis  —  I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  I  used  to  think  that  our  marriage 
was  all  an  aftectation,  and  that  I'd  break  loose  and  run  away  some 
day.  But  now  that  I'm  going  to  be  broken  loose  whether  I  like  it  or 
not,  I'm  perfectly  fond  of  you,  and  perfectly  satisfied  because  I'm 
going  to  live  as  part  of  you  and  not  as  my  troublesome  self. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  [heartbroken]  —  Stay  with  me,  Louis.  Oh,  don't 
leave  me,  dearest. 


13266 d  GEORGE    BERNARD    SHAW 

Louis  —  Not  that  I'm  selfish.  With  all  my  faults  I  don't  think 
I've  ever  been  really  selfish.  No  artist  can:  Art  is  too  large  for 
that.     You  will  marry  again,  Jennifer. 

Mrs.  Duhedat  —  Oh,  how  can  you,  Louis? 

Louis  [insisting  childishly]  —  Yes,  because  people  who  have  found 
marriage  happy  always  marry  again.  Ah,  I  shan't  be  jealous.  [Slyly.] 
But  don't  talk  to  the  other  fellow  too  much  about  me:  he  won't  like 
it.  [Almost  chuckling.]  I  shall  be  your  lover  all  the  time;  but  it 
will  be  a  secret  from  him,  poor  devil! 

Sir  Patrick  —  Come!  you've  talked  enough.     Try  to  rest  awhile. 

Louis  [wearily] — Yes:  I'm  fearfully  tired;  but  I  shall  have  a 
long  rest  presently.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  fellows.  You're 
all  there,  aren't  you?  I'm  too  weak  to  see  anything  but  Jennifer's 
bosom.     That  promises  rest. 

Ridgeon  —  We  are  all  here. 

Louis  [startled]  —  That  voice  sounded  devilish.  Take  care,  Rid- 
geon: my  ears  hear  things  that  other  people's  ears  can't.  I've  been 
thinking  —  thinking.     I'm  cleverer  than  you  imagine. 

Sir  Patrick  [whispering  to  Ridgeon]  —  You've  got  on  his  nerves. 
Colly.     Slip  out  quietly. 

Ridgeon  [apart  to  Sir  Patrick]  —  Would  you  deprive  the  dying  actor 
of  his  audience  ? 

Louis  [his  face  lighting  up  'faintly  ivith  mischievous  glee]  —  I  heard 
that,  Ridgeon.  That  was  good.  Jennifer,  dear:  be  kind  to  Ridgeon 
always;  because  he  was  the  last  man  who  amused  me. 

Ridgeon  [relentless]  —  Was  I  ? 

Louis  —  But  it's  not  true.  It's  you  who  are  still  on  the  stage. 
I'm  halfway  home  already. ' 

Mrs.  Dubedat  [to  Ridgeon]  —  What  did  you  say? 

Louis  [answering  for  him]  —  Nothing,  dear.  Only  one  of  those 
little  secrets  that  men  keep  among  themselves.  Well,  all  you  chaps 
have  thought  pretty  hard  things  of  me,  and  said  them. 

B.  B.  [quite  overcome]  —  No,  no,  Dubedat.     Not  at  all. 

Louis  —  Yes,  you  have.  I  know  what  you  all  think  of  me. 
Don't  imagine  I'm  sore  about  it.     I  forgive  you. 

Walpole  [involuntarily]  —  Well,  damn  me!  [Ashamed.]  I  beg 
your  pardon. 

Louis  —  That  was  old  Walpole,  I  know.  Don't  grieve,  Walpole. 
I'm  perfectly  happy.  I'm  not  in  pain.  I  don't  want  to  live.  I've 
escaped  from  myself.  I'm  in  heaven,  immortal  in  the  heart  of  my 
beautiful  Jennifer.     I'm  not  afraid,  and  not  ashamed.     [Reflectively, 


\ 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW  13266 e 

puzzling  it  out  for  himself  weakly.]  I  know  that  in  an  accidental  sort 
of  way,  struggling  through  the  unreal  part  of  life,  I  haven't  always 
been  able  to  live  up  to  my  ideal.  But  in  my  own  real  world  I  have 
never  done  anything  wrong,  never  denied  my  faith,  never  been  un- 
true to  myself.  I've  been  threatened  and  blackmailed  and  insulted 
and  starved.  But  I've  played  the  game.  I've  fought  the  good 
fight.  And  now  it's  all  over,  there's  an  indescribable  peace.  [He 
feebly  folds  his  hands  and  utters  his  creed.]  I  believe  in  Michael  Angelo 
Velasquez,  and  Rembrandt;  in  the  might  of  design,  the  mystery  of 
color,  the  redemption  of  all  things  by  Beauty  everlasting,  and  the 
message  of  Art  that  has  made  these  hands  blessed.  Amen.  Amen. 
[He  closes  his  eyes  and  lies  still.] 

Mrs.  Dubedat  [breathless]  —  Louis :  are  you 

[Walpole  rises  and  comes  quickly  to  see  whether  he  is  dead.] 

Louis  —  Not  yet,  dear.  Very  nearly,  but  not  yet.  I  should 
like  to  rest  my  head  on  your  bosom;  only  it  would  tire  you. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  No,  no,  no,  darling:  how  could  you  tire  me? 
[She  lifts  him  so  that  he  lies  on  her  bosom.] 

Louis  —  That's  good.     That's  real. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  —  Don't  spare  me,  dear.  Indeed,  indeed  you  will 
not  tire  me.     Lean  on  me  with  all  your  weight. 

Lotiis  [with  a  sudden  half  return  of  his  normal  strength  and  comfort] 
—  Jinny  Gwinny :  I  think  I  shall  recover  after  all. 

[Sir  Patrick  looks  significantly  at  Ridgcon,  mutely  warning  him  that  this 
is  the  end.] 

Mrs.  Dubedat  [hopefully]  —  Yes,  yes :  you  shall. 

Louis  —  Because  I  suddenly  want  to  sleep.  Just  an  ordinary 
sleep. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  [rocking  him]  —  Yes,  dear.  Sleep.  [lie  seems  to  go 
to  sleep.  Walpole  makes  another  movement.  She  protests.]  Sh-sh :  please 
don't  disturb  him.  [Ills  lips  move.]  What  did  you  say,  dear?  [In 
great  distress.]  I  can't  listen  without  moving  him.  [His  lips  move 
again:  Walpole  bends  down  and  listens.] 

Walpole  —  He  wants  to  know  is  the  newspaper  man  here. 

The  Newspaper  Alan  [excited;  for  he  has  been  enjoying  himself 
enormously.]     Yes,  Mr.  Dubedat.     Here  I  am. 

[Walpole  raises  his  hand  warningly  to  silence  him.      Sir  Ralph  sits  down 
quietly  on  the  sofa  and  frankly  buries  his  face  in  his  handkerchief.] 


13266 f  GEORGE    BERNARD    SHAW 

Mrs.  Dubedat  [with  great  relief]  —  Oh,  that's  right,  dear:  don't 
spare  me:  lean  with  all  your  weight  on  me.  Now  you  are  really 
resting. 

[Sir  Patrick  quickly  comes  forward  and  feels  Louis's  pulse;  then  takes  him 
by  the  shoulders.] 

Sir  Patrick  —  Let  me  put  him  back  on  the  pillow,  ma'am.  He 
will  be  better  so. 

Mrs.  Dubedat  [piteously]  —  Oh  no,  please,  please,  doctor.  He 
is  not  tiring  me;  and  he  will  be  so  hurt  when  he  wakes  if  he  finds  I 
have  put  him  away. 

Sir  Patrick  —  He  will  never  wake  again.  [He  takes  the  body  from 
her  and  replaces  it  in  the  chair.  Ridgeon,  unmoved,  lets  down  the  back 
and  makes  a  bier  of  it.] 

Mrs.  Dubedat  [who  has  unexpectedly  sprung  to  her  feet,  and  stands 
dry-eyed  and  stately]  —  Was  that  death  ? 

Walpole  —  Yes. 

THE  MEANING  OF  LOVE 

From    (Getting   Married.)      Copyright;   published   by   Brentano's,    and   reprinted 

by  their  permission. 

MRS.  George  [with  intensely  sad  reproach]  —  When  you  loved 
me  I  gave  you  the  whole  sun  and  stars  to  play  v/ith.  I  gave 
you  eternity  in  a  single  moment,  strength  of  the  mountains 
in  one  clasp  of  your  arms,  and  the  volume  of  all  the  seas  in  one  impulse 
of  your  soul.  A  moment  only:  but  was  it  not  enough?  Were  you 
not  paid  then  for  all  the  rest  of  your  struggle  on  earth  ?  Must  I  mend 
your  clothes  and  sweep  your  floors  as  well?  Was  it  not  enough? 
I  paid  the  price  without  bargaining:  I  bore  the  children  without 
flinching:  was  that  a  reason  for  heaping  fresh  burdens  on  me?  I 
carried  the  child  in  my  arms:  must  I  carry  the  father  too?  When 
I  opened  the  gates  of  paradise,  were  you  blind?  was  it  nothing  to 
you?  When  all  the  stars  sang  in  your  ears  and  all  the  winds  swept 
you  into  the  heart  of  heaven,  were  you  deaf?  were  you  dull?  was  I 
no  more. to  you  than  a  bone  to  a  dog?  Was  it  not  enough?  We  spent 
eternity  together;  and  you  ask  me  for  a  little  lifetime  more.  We 
possessed  all  the  universe  together;  and  you  ask  me  to  give  you  my 
scanty  wages  as  well.  I  have  given  you  the  greatest  of  all  things; 
and  you  ask  me  to  give  you  little  things.  I  gave  you  your  own  soul : 
you  ask  me  for  my  body  as  a  plaything.  Was  it  not  enough?  Was 
it  not  enough? 


"^. 


^ 


\I6AMiX,       I  I 


,  ..^^yM-:Myyf^/fy^/^y^^^,. 


.rS< 


-s>>^-    ' 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


13266  JT 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

(1792-1822) 

BY   GEORGE   E.  WOODBERRY 

Iercy  Bysshe  Shelley,  an  English  poet,  was  born  at  Field 
Place,  Sussex,  on  August  4th,  1792.  He  was  the  eldest  son 
of  Timothy  Shelley,  an  English  country  gentleman,  who 
afterwards  inherited  a  baronetcy  and  a  large  estate,  to  which  in  part 
the  poet  was  heir  by  entail.  He  was  educated  at  Eton,  and  went  up 
to  Oxford  in  18 10;  he  was  expelled  from  the  university  on  March 
25th,  181 1,  for  publishing  a  pamphlet  entitled  <  The  Necessity  of 
Atheism.*  In  the  summer  of  the  same  year  he  married  Harriet  West- 
brook,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  the  daughter  of  a  retired  London  tavern- 
keeper;  and  from  this  time  had  no  cordial  relations  with  his  family 
at  Field  Place.  He  led  a  wandering  and  unsettled  life  in  England, 
Wales,  and  Ireland, — visiting  the  last  as  a  political  agitator, — until  the 
spring  of  18 14,  when  domestic  difficulties  culminated  in  a  separation 
from  his  wife,  and  an  elopement  with  Mary  Godwin,  the  daughter  of 
William  Godwin  and  Mary  Wollstonecraft.  His  wife,  Harriet,  com- 
mitted suicide  by  drowning  in  the  winter  of  18 16,  and  immediately 
after  this  event  he  legally  married  Mary.  The  charge  of  his  two 
children  by  Harriet  was  taken  from  him  early  in  18 17  by  a  decision 
of  the  Lord  Chancellor,  Eldon,  on  the  ground  that  Shelley  held  athe- 
istical opinions.  He  remained  in  England  a  year  longer,  and  in  the 
spring  of  1818  went  to  reside  in  Italy.  There  he  lived,  going  from 
city  to  city,  but  mainly  at  Pisa  and  its  neighborhood,  until  the  sum- 
mer of  1822,  when  he  was  lost  in  a  storm  on  July  8th,  while  sailing 
off  the  coast  between  Leghorn  and  Lerici;  his  body  was  cast  up  on 
the  sands  of  Viareggio,  and  was  there  burned  in  the  presence  of 
Byron,  Leigh  Hunt,  and  his  friend  Trelawney,  on  August  i8th;  the 
ashes  were  buried  in  the  Protestant  cemetery  at  Rome.  He  had 
three  children  by  his  second  wife,  of  whom  one  only,  Percy  Florence, 
survived  him,  afterward  inheriting  the  title  and  his  father's  share  in 
the  family  estate. 

Shelley's  literary  life  began  with  prose  and  verse  at  Eton,  and  he 
had  already  published  before  he  went  up  to  Oxford.  Through  all  his 
wanderings,  and  amid  his  many  personal  difficulties,  he  was  indefati- 
gably  busy  with  his  pen ;  and  in  his  earlier  days  wrote  much  in  prose. 


1,266  ti  PERCY   BYSSHE. SHELLEY 

The  first  distinctive  work  was  his  poem  ^  Queen  Mab^  (1813),  and  this 
was  followed  by  ^Alastor*  (18 16);  after  which  his  great  works  were 
produced  in  rapid  succession.  While  still  a  youth,  he  had  begun,  as  a 
radical  reformer,  to  take  a  practical  interest  in  men  and  events,  and 
until  after  his  union  with  Mary  much  of  his  energy  was  consumed 
and  scattered  fruitlessly ;  but  as  his  poetic  instincts  and  intellectual 
power  came  into  fuller  control  of  his  life,  and  the  difficulties  of  his 
position  isolated  him  and  threw  him  back  upon  his  own  nature,  he 
gradually  gave  himself  more  exclusively  to  creative  literature.  The 
works  written  in  Italy  are  of  most  value:  ^Prometheus  Unbound,^ 
'-The  Cenci,^  ^Adonais,'  ^  Epipsychidion,^  <  Hellas,^  together  with  the 
lyrics  and  fragments.  Nevertheless,  the  bulk  of  his  work  is  large 
and  various:  it  fills  several  volumes  of  prose  as  well  as  verse,  and 
includes  political,  philosophical,  and  critical  miscellanies,  writings  on 
questions  of  the  day,  and  much  translation  from  ancient  and  modern 
authors. 

Shelley  himself  described  his  genius  as  in  the  main  a  moral  one, 
and  in  this  he  made  a  correct  analysis.  It  was  fed  by  ideas  derived 
from  books,  and  sustained  by  a  sympathy  so  intense  as  to  become  a 
passion  for  moral  aims.  He  was  intellectually  the  child  of  the  Revo- 
lution; and  from  the  moment  that  he  drew  thoughtful  breath  he 
was  a  disciple  of  the  radicals  in  England.  The  regeneration  of  man- 
kind was  the  cause  that  kindled  his  enthusiasm;  and  the  changes 
he  looked  for  were  social  as  well  as  political.  He  spent  his  strength 
.'in  advocacy  of  the  doctrines  of  democracy,  and  in  hostility  to  its 
obvious  opponents  established  in  the  authority  of  Church  and  State, 
and  in  custom;  he  held  the  most  advanced  position,  not  only  in 
religion,  but  in  respect  to  the  institution  of  marriage,  the  use  of 
property,  and  the  welfare  of  the  masses  of  mankind.  The  first  com- 
plete expression  of  his  opinion,  the  precipitate  from  the  ferment 
of  his  boyish  years,  was  given  in  <  Queen  Mab,^  a  crude  poem  after 
the  style  of  Southey,  by  which  he  was  long  best  and  most  unfavor- 
ably known;  he  recognized  its  immaturity,  and  sought  to  suppress 
a  pirated  edition  published  in  his  last  years:  the  violent  prejudice 
against  him  in  England  as  an  atheist  was  largely  due  to  this  early 
work,  with  its  long  notes,  in  connection  with  the  decision  of  the  court 
taking  from  him  the  custody  of  his  children.  The  second  expres- 
sion of  his  opinions,  similar  in  scope,  was  given  five  years  later  in 
^  The  Revolt  of  Islam, ^  a  Spenserian  poem  in  twelve  books.  In  this 
work  the  increase  of  his  poetic  faculty  is  shown  by  his  denial  of  a 
didactic  aim,  and  by  the  series  of  scenes  from  nature  and  human 
life  which  is  the  web  of  the  verse;  but  the  subject  of  the  poem  is 
the  regeneration  of  society,  and  the  intellectual  impulse  which  sustains 
it  is  political  and  philanthropic.     Up  to  the  time  of  its  composition 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY  1 326 7 

the    main    literary   influence    that   governed   him    was    Latin:    now   he 
began   to   feel   the   power  of  Greek  literature;   and  partly  in  making 
responses  to  it,  and  partly  by  the  expansion  of  his  mind,  he  revolu- 
tionized  his   poetic   method.     The  result   was   that   in   the   third   and 
greatest  of  his  works  of  this  kind,  <  Prometheus  Unbound,  >  he  devel- 
oped a  new  type  in  English,— the  lyrical  drama.     The  subject  is  still     1 
the  regeneration  of  society:   but  the   tale  has  grown  into  the  drama;    / 
the   ideas   have   generated  abstract  impersonations  which   have   more 
likeness  to  elemental   beings,  to   Titanic  and  mythological   creations,    \ 
than  to  humanity;  while  the  interest  intellectually  is  still  held  within 
the  old  limits  of  the  general  cause  of  mankind.    The  same  principles,    ■ 
the  same  convictions,  the  same  aims,  fused  in  one  moral  enthusiasm, 
are  here:   but  a  transformation   has   come   over   their  embodiment, —    ' 
imagination  has  seized  upon  them,  a  new  lyrical  music  has  penetrated 
and    sublimated    them,    and    the    poem    so    engendered    and    born    is 
different   in    kind   from    those   that    went    before;    it    holds    a   unique 
place  in  the  literature  of  the  world,  and  is  the  most  passionate  dream 
of  the  perfect  social  ideal   ever  molded   in  verse.      In  a  fourth  work, 
<  Hellas, >    Shelley  applied  a  similar  method   in 'an  effort  to  treat  the 
Greek   Revolution  as  a  single  instance  of  the  victory  of  the  general 
cause  which  he  had  most  at  heart;  and  in  several  shorter  poems,  espe- 
cially odes,  he  from  time  to  time  took  up  the  same  theme.      The  ideal 
he  sets  forth  in  all  these  writings,  clarifying  as  it  goes  on,  is  not  dif- 
ferent from  the  millennium  of  poets  and  thinkers  in  all  ages:  justice 
and  liberty,  love  the  supreme  law,  are  the  ends  to  be  achieved,  and 
moral  excellence  with  universal  happiness  is  the  goal  of  all. 

In  the  works  which  have  been  mentioned,  and  which  contain  the 
most  of  Shelley's  substantial  thought,  the  moral  prepossession  of  his 
mind  is  most  manifest;  it  belonged  to  the  conscious  part  of  his 
being,  and  would  naturally  be  foremost  in  his  most  deliberate  writ- 
ing. It  was,  in  my  judgment,  the  central  thing  in  his  genius;  but 
genius  in  working  itself  out  displays  special  faculties  of  many  kinds, 
which  must  be  noticed  in  their  own  right.  Shelley  is,  for  example, 
considered  as  pre-eminently  a  poet  of  nature.  His  susceptibility  to 
sensuous  impressions  was  very  great,  his  response  to  them  in  love  of 
beauty  and  in  joy  in  them  was  constant;  and  out  of  his  intimacy  with 
nature  came  not  merely  descriptive  power  and  the  habit  of  inter- 
preting emotion  through  natural  images,  such  as  many  poets  have 
compassed,  but  a  peculiar  faculty  often  noticed  by  his  critics,  usually 
called  the  myth-making  faculty,  which  is  thought  of  as  racial  rather 
than  individual.  During  his  residence  in  Italy  he  was  steeped  in  the 
Greek  spirit  as  it  survives  in  the  philosophy  and  poetry  of  antiq-uity; 
and  it  was  in  harmony  with  his  mood  that  he  should  vitalize  the 
elements.     What   is   extraordinary  is  the  success,  the  primitive   ease, 


13268 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 


the  magic,  with  which  he  did  so.  In  the  simple  instances  which 
recur  to  every  one's  memory  —  *The  Skylark,^  ^  The  Cloud,*  the  ^  Ode 
to  the  West  Wind*  —  he  has  rendered  the  sense  of  non-human,  of  ele- 
mental being;  and  in  the  characters  of  <  Prometheus  Unbound* — in 
Asia  especially  —  he  has  created  such  beings,  to  which  the  spirits  of 
the  moon  and  earth  as  he  evoked  them  seem  natural  concomitants, 
and  to  them  he  has  given  reality  for  the  imagination.  It  is  largely 
because  he  dealt  in  this  witchery,  this  matter  of  primeval  illusion, 
that  he  gives  to  some  minds  the  impression  of  dwelling  in  an  imagi- 
nary and  unsubstantial  world;  and  the  flood  of  light  and  glory  of 
color  which  he  exhales  as  an  atmosphere  about  the  substance  of  the 
verse,  dazzle  and  often  bewilder  the  reader  whose  eyes  are  yet  to  be 
familiarized  with  the  shapes  and  air  of  his  scene.  But  with  few 
exceptions,  while  using  this  creative  power  by  poetic  instinct,  he 
brings  back  the  verse  at  the  end,  whether  in  the  lyrics  or  the  longer 
works,  to  *^  the  hopes  and  fears  of  men.**  In  the  ordinary  delineation 
of  nature  as  it  appears,  his  touch  is  sure  and  accurate ;  with  a  regard 
for  detail  which  shows  close  observation,  and  a  frequent  minuteness 
which  shows  the  contemporary  of  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth.  The 
opening  passage  of  <  Julian  and  Maddalo,*  the  lines  at  Pisa  on  the 
bridge,  and  the  fragment  ^Marenghi,*  are  three  widely  different 
examples. 

Shelley  was  also  strongly  attracted  by  the  narrative  form  for  its 
own  sake.  He  was  always  fond  of  a  story  from  the  days  of  his  boy- 
hood; and  though  the  romantic  cast  of  fiction  in  his  youth,  both  in 
prose  and  verse,  might  indicate  a  lack  of  interest  in  life,  in  the  taste 
for  this  he  was  not  different  from  the  time  he  lived  in,  and  the  way 
to  reality  lay  then  through  this  path.  <  Rosalind  and  Helen  *  was  a 
tale  like  others  of  its  kind,  made  up  of  romantic  elements;  but  the 
instinct  which  led  Shelley  to  tell  it,  as  he  had  told  still  cruder  sto- 
ries in  his  first  romances  at  Eton,  was  fundamental  in  him,  and  led 
him  afterward,  still  further  refining  his  matter,  to  weave  out  of  airy 
nothing  <  The  Witch  of  Atlas  *  almost  at  the  close  of  his  career.  The 
important  matter  is,  to  connect  with  these  narrative  beginnings  in 
prose  and  verse  his  serious  dramatic  work,  which  has  for  its  prime 
example  *  The  Cenci,*  otherwise  standing  too  far  apart  from  his  life. 
In  this  drama  he  undertook  to  deal  with  the  reality  of  human  nature 
in  its  most  difficult  literary  form,  the  tragedy;  and  the  success  with 
which  he  suppressed  his  ordinary  exuberance  of  imagery  and  phrase 
and  kept  to  a  severe  restraint,  at  the  same  time  producing  the  one 
conspicuous  example  of  tragedy  in  his  century  in  England,  has  been 
often  wondered  at.  In  the  unfinished  <  Charles  I.*  he  made  a  second 
attempt;  while  in  the  various  dramatic  fragments  other  than  this 
he  seems  to  have  contemplated  a  new  form  of  romantic  drama.     It 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY  13269 

seems  to  me  that  this  line   of  his   development  has  been   too   little 
studied;   but  there  is  space  here  only  to  make  the  suggestion. 

Another  subordinate  division  of  Shelley's  work  lies  in  his  treat- 
ment of  the  ideal  of  individual  nobility  and  happiness  apart  from 
society.  Of  course  in  the  character  of  Laon,  and  on  the  grand  scale 
in  that  of  Prometheus,  he  set  forth  traits  of  the  individual  ideal;  but 
in  both  instances  they  were  social  reformers,  and  had  a  relation  to 
mankind.  In  <Alastor,>  on  the  contrary,  the  individual  is  dealt  with 
for  his  own  sole  sake,  and  the  youth  is  drawn  in  lines  of  melancholy 
beauty;  he  was  of  the  same  race  as  Laon,  but  existed  only  in  his 
own  poetic  unhappiness;  of  the  same  race  also  was  Prince  Athanase, 
but  the  poem  is  too  unfinished  to  permit  us  to  say  more  than  that 
as  he  is  disclosed,  he  is  only  an  individual.  In  ^  Epipsychidion  ^  the 
same  character  reappears  as  a  persistent  type  in  Shelley's  mind,  with 
the  traits  that  he  most  valued:  and  the  conclusion  there  is  the  union 
of  the  lover  and  his  beloved  in  the  enchanted  isle,  far  from  the 
world;  which  also  is  familiar  to  readers  of  Shelley  in  other  poems  as 
a  persistent  idea  in  his  mind.  In  these  poems  one  finds  the  recoil 
of  Shelley's  mind  from  the  task  of  reform  he  had  imdertaken,  the 
antipodes  of  the  social  leader  in  the  lonely  exile  from  all  but  the  one 
kindred  spirit,  the  sense  of  weariness,  of  defeat,  of  despair  over  the 
world  —  the  refuge.  It  is  natural,  consequently,  to  feel  that  Shelley 
himself  is  near  in  these  characters;  that  they  are  successive  incarna- 
tions of  his  spirit,  and  frankly  such.  They  are  autobiographic  with 
conscious  art,  and  stand  only  at  one  remove  from  those  lyrics  of 
personal  emotion  which  are  unconscious,  the  cries  of  the  spirit  which 
have  sung  themselves  into  the  heart  of  the  world.  Upon  these  lyrics, 
which  stand  apart  from  his  deliberate  work, —  impulsive,  overflowing, 
irresistible  in  their  spontaneity,  —  it  may  be  granted  that  his  popu- 
lar fame  rests.  Many  of  them  are  singularly  perfect  in  poetic  form 
naturally  developed;  they  have  the  music  which  is  as  unforgettable  as 
the  tones  of  a  human  voice,  as  unmistakable,  as  personal,  and  which 
has  winged  them  to  fly  through  the  world.  They  make  one  forget 
all  the  rest  in  Shelley  himself,  and  they  express  his  world-weary  yet 
still  aspiring  soul.  The  most  perfect  of  them,  in  my  judgment,  is  the 
<  Ode  to  the  West  Wind  > :  in  form  it  is  faultless;  and  it  blends  in  one 
expression  the  power  he  had  to  interpret  natu-e's  elemental  life,  the 
pathos  of  his  own  spirit, —  portrayed  more  nobly  than  in  the  cog- 
nate passage  of  the  ^Adonais,^  because  more  unconscious  of  itself, —  and 
the  supreme  desire  he  had  to  serve  the  world  with  those  thoughts 
blown  now  through  the  world, — 

^<  Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind.* 

No  other  of  the  lyrics  seems  to  me  so  comprehensive,  so  adequate. 
The  *Adonais'  only  can  compare  with  it  for  personal  power,  for  the 


13270  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

penetration  of  the  verse  with  Shelley's  spirit  in  its  eloquent  passion. 
Of  that  elegy  the  poetry  is  so  direct,  and  the  charm  so  immediate 
and  constant,  that  it  needs  no  other  mention;  further  than  to  say 
that  like  the  <  Sensitive  Plant,*  it  has  more  affinity  with  Shelley's 
lyrics  than  with  his  longer  works. 

Some  of  the  characteristics  of  Shelley  have  been  mentioned  above 
with  such  fullness  as  our  limits  allow,  and  the  relations  between 
his  more  important  works  have  been  roughly  indicated.  There  is 
much  more  to  say;  but  I  will  add  only  that  in  what  seems  to  me  a 
cardinal  point  in  the  criticism  of  poetry, — the  poet's  conception  of 
womanhood, —  of  all  the  poets  of  the  century  in  England,  Shelley  is 
approached  only  by  Burns  in  tenderness,  and  excels  Burns  in  nobleness 
of  feeling.  The  reputation  of  Shelley  in  his  lifetime  was  but  slight  in 
the  world;  and  it  emerged  only  by  slow  stages  from  the  neglect  and 
obloquy  which  were  his  portion  while  he  lived  and  when  he  died. 
In  the  brief  recital  of  the  events  of  his  life  which  heads  this  sketch, 
it  is  obvious  at  a  glance  that  there  is  much  which  needs  explanation 
and  defense.  The  best  defense  was  to  throw  all  possible  light  upon 
his  career,  and  that  was  done  by  all  who  knew  him;  so  that  his  life 
is  more  minutely  exposed  from  boyhood  to  his  death  than  that  of  any 
other  English  poet.  As  a  consequence  of  this,  opinion  regarding  him 
has  been  much  modified;  and  though  it  may  still  be  stern,  it  is  now 
seldom  harsh.  The  opinions  which  were  regarded  as  of  evil  influ- 
ence, and  the  acts  which  were  condemned  as  wrong  acts,  are  open 
to  all  to  understand  and  pass  judgment  upon,  as  they  are  related  in 
many  books;  and  in  respect  to  these,  each  will  have  his  own  mind. 
Whatever  be  the  judgment,  it  must  be  agreed  that  the  century  has 
brought  fame  to  Shelley,  as  a  poet  of  the  highest  class  and  of  a  rare 
kind;  and  that  as  a  man  he  has  been  an  inspiration  and  almost  a 
creed  in  many  lives,  and  has  won  respect  and  affection  from  many 
hearts,  and  a  singular  devotion  from  some  akin  to  that  which  his 
friends  felt  toward  him.  He  has  been  loved  as  it  is  given  to  few 
strangers  to  be  loved, —  but  that  is  apart  from  his  poetry. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  13271 

FROM   < PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND > 
Chorus  of  Furies 

FROM  the  ends  of  the  earth,  from  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
Where  the    night   has   its  grave   and   the   morning  its 
birth, 
Come,  come,  come! 
O  ye  who  shake  hills  with  the  scream  of  your  mirth. 
When  cities  sink  howling  in  ruin;  and  ye 
Who  with  wingless  footsteps  trample  the  sea, 
And  close  upon  Shipwreck  and  Famine's  track. 
Sit  chattering  with  joy  on  the  foodless  wreck; 
Come,  come,  come! 
Leave  the  bed,  low,  cold,  and  red. 
Strewed  beneath  a  nation  dead; 
'  Leave  the  hatred,  as  in  ashes 

Fire  is  left  for  future  burning: 
It  will  burst  in  bloodier  flashes 

When  ye  stir  it,  soon  returning: 
Leave  the  self-contempt  implanted 
In  young  spirits,  sense-enchanted, 

Misery's  yet  unkindled  fuel : 
Leave  Hell's  secrets  half  unchanted 

To  the  maniac  dreamer;  cruel 

More  than  ye  can  be  with  hate 

Is  he  with  fear. 

Come,  come,  come! 

We  are  steaming  up  from  Hell's  wide  gate. 

And  we  burthen  the  blast  of  the  atmosphere, 
But  vainly  we  toil  till  ye  come  here. 


Voice  in  the  Air 

LIFE  of  Life!  thy  lips  enkindle 
With  their  love  the  breath  between  them; 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  fire:  then  screen  them 
In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light!  thy  limbs  are  burning 

Through  the  vest  which  seems  to  hide  them: 


13272  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through  the  clouds  ere  they  divide  them; 
And  this  atmosphere  divinest 
Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others:   none  beholds  thee. 
But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendor; 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever! 

Lamp  of  Earth!   where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness, 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness. 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing! 


Asia 

My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat. 

Which,  like  a  sleeping  swan,  doth  float 
Qpon  the  silver  waves  of  thy  sweet  singing; 

And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 

Beside  a  helm  conducting  it; 
Whilst  all  the  winds  with  melody  are  ringing. 

It  seems  to  float  ever,  for  ever. 

Upon  that  many-winding  river. 

Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 

A  paradise  of  wildernesses! 

Till,  like  one  in  slumber  bound, 
Borne  to  the  ocean,  I  float  down,  around. 
Into  a  sea  profound,  of  ever-spreading  sound: 

Meanwhile  thy  spirit  lifts  its  pinions 
In  music's  most  serene  dominions; 

Catching  the  winds  that  fan  that  happy  heaven. 
And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar. 
Without  a  course,  without  a  star. 

But  by  the  instinct  of  sweet  music  driven; 
Till  through  Elysian  garden  islets 
By  thee,  most  beautiful  of  pilots. 
Where  never  mortal  pinnace  glided, 
The  boat  of  my  desire  is  guided: 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY  I3273 

Realms  where  the  air  we  breathe  is  love. 

Which  in  the  winds  and  on  the  waves  doth  move, 

Harmonizing  this  earth  with  what  we  feel  above. 


LAST  HOUR   OF   BEATRICE 
From  <The  Cenci> 

Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and  Giacomo,  guarded 

BEATRICE —  I  hardly  dare  to  fear 

That  thou  bring'st  other  news  than  a  just  pardon. 
Camillo  —  May  God  in  heaven  be  less  inexorable 

To  the  Pope's  prayers  than  he  has  been  to  mine. 
Here  is  the  sentence  and  the  warrant. 
Beatrice  [wildly] —  O 

My  God!     Can  it  be  possible  I  have 
To  die  so  suddenly  ?     So  young  to  go 
Under  the  obscure,  cold,  rotting,  wormy  ground! 
To  be  nailed  down  into  a  narrow  place ; 
To  see  no  more  sweet  sunshine ;   hear  no  more 
Blithe  voice  of  living  thing;   muse  not  again 
Upon  familiar  thoughts,  sad,  yet  thus  lost  — 
How  fearful!   to  be  nothing!     Or  to  be  — 
What?     Oh,  where  am  I?     Let  me  not  go  mad! 
Sweet  Heaven,  forgive  weak  thoughts!     If  there  should  do 
No  God,  no  heaven,  no  earth  in  the  void  world; 
The  wide,  gray,  lampless,  deep,  unpeopled  world! 
If  all  things  then  should  be  —  my  father's  spirit. 
His  eye,  his  voice,  his  touch  surrounding  me ; 
The  atmosphere  and  breath  of  my  dead  life ! 
If  sometimes,  as  a  shape  more  like  himself, 
Even  the  form  which  tortured  me  on  earth. 
Masked  in  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles,  he  should  come 
And  wind  me  in  his  hellish  arms,  and  fix 
His  eyes  on  mine,  and  drag  me  down,  down,  down! 
For  was  he  not  alone  omnipotent 
On  earth,  and  ever  present  ?     Even  though  dead, 
Does  not  his  spirit  live  in  all  that  breathe, 
And  work  for  me  and  mine  still  the  same  ruin, 
Scorn,  pain,  despair  ?     Who  ever  yet  returned 
To  teach  the  laws  of  death's  untrodden  realm  ? 
Unjust  perhaps  as  those  which  drive  us  now 
Oh,  whither,  whither? 


13274  PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

Lucretia—  Trust  in  God's  sweet  love, 

The  tender  promises  of  Christ:   ere  night. 

Think,  we  shall  be  in  Paradise. 
Beatrice—  'Tis  past! 

Whatever  comes,  my  heart  shall  sink  no  more. 

And  yet,  I  know  not  why,  your  words  strike  chill: 

How  tedious,  false,  and  cold,  seem  all  things.     I 

Have  met  with  much  injustice  in  this  world; 

No  difference  has  been  made  by  God  or  man, 

Or  any  power  molding  my  wretched  lot, 

'Twixt  good  or  evil,  as  regarded  me. 

I  am  cut  off  from  the  only  world  I  know, —  ; 

From  light,  and  life,  and  love,  in  youth's  sweet  prime. 

You  do  well  telling  me  to  trust  in  God, — 

I  hope  I  do  trust  in  him.     In  whom  else 

Can  any  trust  ?    And  yet  my  heart  is  cold. 

{During  the  latter  speeches   Giacomo  has  retired  conversing  with   Camillo,      J 
who  now  goes  out;  Giacomo  advances.^  fl 

Giacomo — Know  you  not,  mother  —  sister,  know  you  not? 

Bernardo  even  now  is  gone  to  implore 

The  Pope  to  grant  our  pardon. 
Lucretia—  Child,  perhaps 

It  will  be  granted.     We  may  all  then  live 

To  make  these  woes  a  tale  for  distant  years: 

Oh,  what  a  thought!     It  gushes  to  my  heart 

Like  the  warm  blood. 
Beatrice—  Yet  both  will  soon  be  cold. 

Oh,  trample  out  that  thought!     Worse  than  despair, 

Worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  is  hope: 

It  is  the  only  ill  which  can  find  place 

Upon  the  giddy,  sharp,  and  narrow  hour 

Tottering  beneath  us.     Plead  with  the  swift  frost 

That  it  should  spare  the  eldest  flower  of  spring; 

Plead  with  awakening  earthquake,  o'er  whose  couch 

Even  now  a  city  stands,  strong,  fair,  and  free; 

Now  stench  and  blackness  yawn,  like  death.     Oh   plead 

With  Famine,  or  wind-walking  Pestilence, 

Blind  lightning,  or  the  deaf  sea,  not  with  man! 

Cruel,  cold,  formal  man :  righteous  in  words. 

In  deeds  a  Cain.     No,  mother,  we  must  die: 

Since  such  is  the  reward  of  innocent  lives; 

Such  the  alleviation  of  worst  wrongs. 

And  whilst  our  murderers  live,  and  hard,  cold  men, 


PERCY   BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Smiling  and  slow,  walk  through  a  world  of  tears 
To  death  as  to  life's  sleep,  'twere  just  the  grave 
Were  some  strange  joy  for  us.     Come,  obscure  Death, 
And  wind  me- in  thine  all-embracing  arms! 
Like  a  fond  mother  hide  me  in  thy  bosom. 
And  rock  me  to  the  sleep  from  which  none  wake. 
Live  ye,  who  live,  subject  to  one  another 
As  we  were  once  who  now  — 

Bernardo  rushes  in 

Bernardo—  Oh,  horrible, 

That  tears,  that  looks,  that  hope  poured  forth  in  prayer. 

Even  till  the  heart  is  vacant  and  despairs, 

Should  all  be  vain!     The  ministers  of  death 

Are  waiting  round  the  doors.     I  thought  I  saw 

Blood  on  the  face  of  one.  —  What  if  'twere  fancy? 

Soon  the  heart's  blood  of  all  I  love  on  earth 

Will  sprinkle  him,  and  hfe  will  wipe  it  ofE 

As  if  'twere  only  rain.     O  life!     O  world! 

Cover  me!   let  me  be  no  more!     To  see 

That  perfect  mirror  of  pure  innocence 

Wherein  I  gazed,  and  grew  happy  and  good, 

Shivered  to  dust!     To  see  thee,  Beatrice, 

Who  made  all  lovely  thou  didst  look  upon  — 

Thee,  light  of  life,  dead,  dark!  while  I  say  « sister » 

To  hear  I  have  no  sister;  and  thou,  mother, 

Whose  love  was  as  a  bond  to  all  our  loves, 

Dead!    the  sweet  bond  broken! 

Enter  Camillo  and  Guards 

They  come!     Let  me 
Kiss  those  warm  lips  before  their  crimson  leaves 
Are  blighted  —  white  —  cold.     Say  farewell  before 
Death  chokes  that  gentle  voice!     Oh,  let  me  hear 
You  speak. 
Beatrice —  Farewell,  my  tender  brother.     Think 

Of  our  sad  fate  with  gentleness,  as  now; 
And  let  mild,  pitying   thoughts  lighten  for  thee 
Thy  sorrow's  load.     Err  not  in  harsh  despair. 
But  tears  and  patience.     One  thing  more,  my  child: 
For  thine  own  sake  be  constant  to  the  love 
Thou  bearest  us;   and  to  the  faith  that  I, 
Though  wrapt  in  a  strange  cloud  of  crime  and  shame. 
Lived  ever  holy  and  unstained.     And  though 


13275 


I -,276  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

111  tongues  shall  wound  me,  and  our  common  name 
Be  as  a  mark  stamped  on  thine  innocent  brow 
For  men  to  point  at  as  they  pass,  do  thou 
Forbear,,  and  never  think  a  thought  unkind 
Of  those  who  perhaps  love  thee  in  their  graves. 
So  mayest  thou  die  as  I  do ;   fear  and  pain 
Being  subdued.     Farewell!     Farewell!     Farewell! 

Bernardo  — 

I  cannot  say,  farewell ! 

Camillo —  O    Lady  Beatrice! 

Beatrice  —  Give  yourself  no  unnecessary  pam. 

My  dear  Lord  Cardinal.     Here,  mother,  tie 
My  girdle  for  me,  and  bind  up  this  hair 
In  any  simple  knot ;   ay,  that  does  well. 
And  yours  I  see  is  coming  down.      How  often 
Have  we  done  this  for  one  another;  now 
We  shall  not  do  it  any  more.     My  lord, 
We  are  quite  ready.     Well,  'tis  very  well. 


ADONAIS 

I   WEEP  for  Adonais  —  he  is  dead! 
Oh,  weep  for  Adonais!    though  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a  head! 
And  thou,  sad  hour,  selected  from  all  years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  compeers. 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow !     Say :  ^*  With  me 

Died  Adonais ;   till  the  future  dares 
Forget  the  past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity ! " 

Where  wert  thou,  mighty  mother,  when  he  lay. 

When  thy  son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft  which  flies 
In  darkness  ?   where  was  lorn  Urania 

When  Adonais  died  ?     With  veiled  eyes, 

'Mid  listening  echoes,  in  her  paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamored  breath. 

Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies 
With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the  corse  beneath. 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of  death. 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead! 

Wake,  melancholy  mother,  wake  and  weep! 


PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY  I3277 

Yet  wherefore  ?     Quench  within  their  burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep, 
Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining;  sleep; 

For  he  is  gone  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 

Descend;  —  oh,  dream  not  that  the  amorous  deep 

Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air: 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at  our  despair. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again! 

Lament  anew,  Urania!  —  He  died 
Who  was  the  sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 

Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country's  pride. 

The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide, 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed  rite 

Of  lust  and  blood ;  he  went,  unterrified. 
Into  the  gulf  of  death :  but  his  clear  sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth ;  the  third  among  the  sons  of  light. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew! 

Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew. 

Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night  of  time 

In  which  suns  perished;  others  more  sublime. 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  God, 

Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny  road 
Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to  Fame's  serene  abode. 

But  now  thy  youngest,  dearest  one  has  perished, 

The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew. 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden  cherished, 

And  fed  with  true  love  tears,  instead  of  dew: 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew ! 
Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the  last. 

The  bloom  whose  petals,  nipt  before  they  blew. 
Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste; 
The  broken  lily  lies  —  the  storm  is  overpast. 

To  that  high  capital  where  kingly  Death 

Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay. 
He  came ;  and  bought,  with  price  of  purest  breath, 

A  grave  among  the  eternal.  —  Come  away! 

Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while  still 

He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay; 


13278 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

Awake  him  not!  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more!  — 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace 

The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place; 

The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 

Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface 

So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness  and  the  law 
Of  change  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal  curtain  draw. 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais!  —  The  quick  dreams, 
The  passion-winged  ministers  of  thought, 

Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not, — 

Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain, 

But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung;  and  mourn  theil 
lot 

Round  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their  sweet  pain, 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find  a  home  again. 

And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps  his  cold  head. 

And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and  cries:  — 

*Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes. 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 

A  tear  some  dream  has  loosened  from  his  brain.* 
Lost  angel  of  a  ruined  paradise ! 

She  knew  not  'twas  her  own ;  as  with  no  stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  outwept  its  rain. 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 

Washed  his  light  limbs  as  if  embalming  them; 

Another  dipt  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem, 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem; 

Another  in  her  willful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 

A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak, 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen  cheek. 

Another  splendor  on  his  mouth  alit, — 

That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the  breath 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  13279 

Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded  wit, 
And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With  lightning  and  with  music:  the  damp  death 

Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips; 
And  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 

Of  moonlight  vapor,  which  the  cold  night  clips, 
It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  past  to  its  eclipse. 

And  others  came :   Desires  and  Adorations, 

Winged  Persuasions  and  veiled  Destinies, 
Splendors,  and  Glooms,  and  glimmering  incarnations 

Of  Hopes  and  Fears,  and  twilight  Phantasies; 

And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  sighs; 
And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the  gleam 

Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, — 
Came  in  slow  pomp;  the  moving  pomp  might  seem 
Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream. 

All  he  had  loved,  and  molded  into  thought. 

From  shape  and  hue  and  odor  and  sweet  sound, 

Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 

Her  eastern  watch-tower;  and  her  hair  unbound. 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the  ground, 

Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day: 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned, 

Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay. 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in  their  dismay. 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains. 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered  lay. 

And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  fountains, 

Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young  green  spray, 
Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day; 

Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 

Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  pined  away 

Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds:  a  drear 
Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the  woodmen  hear. 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she  threw  down 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were, 

Or  they  dead  leaves:  since  her  delight  is  flown, 

For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen  year? 
To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear, 

Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 


13280  PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

Thou,  Adoiiais:  wan  they  stand  and  sere 
Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth, 
With  dew  all  turned  to  tears;  odor,  to  sighing  ruth. 

Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale, 

Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious  pain; 

Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 

Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's  domain 
Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth  complain, 

Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty  nest, 
As  Albion  wails  for  thee:  the  curse  of  Cain 

Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  innocent  breast, 
And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was  its  earthly  guest! 

Ah,  woe  is  me!   winter  is  come  and  gone, 

But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year. 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone; 

The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  reappear; 

Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  season's  bier; 
The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake, 

And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere; 
And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake, 
Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their  trance  awake. 


Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and  hill  and  ocean 
A  quickening  life  from  the  earth's  heart  has  burst, 

As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion. 

From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when  first 
God  dawned  on  chaos:  in  its  stream  immersed 

The  lamps  of  heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst  — 

Diffuse  themselves,  and  spend  in  love's  delight 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might. 

The  leprous  corpse  touched  by  this  spirit  tender 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath- 

Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splendor 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  beneath: 

Naught  we  know,  dies.     Shall  that  alone  which  knows. 
Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 

By  sightless  lightning? — th'  intense  atom  glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  cold  repose.  • 

Alas!  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 


I 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  13281 

And  grief  itself  be  mortal!    Woe  is  me! 

Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we  ?  of  what  scene 
The  actors  or  spectators  ?    Great  and  mean 

Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what  life  must  borrow. 
As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green, 

Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the  morrow, 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year  wake  year  to  sorrow. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more! 

"Wake  thou,'*  cried  Misery,  "childless  mother,  rise 
Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's  core, 

A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  with  tears  and  sighs.* 

And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's  eyes, 
And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's  song 

Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried,  "Arise!" 
Swift  as  a  thought  by  the  snake  Memory  stung. 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  splendor  sprung. 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  night,  that  springs 
Out  of  the  east,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 

The  golden  day,  which,  on  eternal  wings, 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
Had  left  the  earth  a  corpse.     Sorrow  and  fear 

So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania; 

So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 

Of  stormy  mist;  so  swept  her  on  her  way 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais  lay. 

Out  of  her  secret  paradise  she  sped. 

Through  camps  and  cities  rough  with  stone,  and  steel. 
And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  airy  tread 

Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 

Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell: 
And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more  sharp  than  tbey, 

Rent  the  soft  form  they  never  could  repel. 
Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears  of  May, 
Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving  way. 

In  the  death  chamber  for  a  moment  Death, 

Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  might 

Blushed   to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Revisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light 
Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her  dear  delight, 

*  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  comfortless. 
As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night! 


13282  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

Leave  me  not!»   cried  Urania:   her  distress 
Roused  Death;  Death  rose  and  smiled,  and  met  her  vain 
caress. 

"Stay  yet  awhile!   speak  to  me  once  again; 

Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live: 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain 

That  word,  that  kiss,  shall  all  thoughts  else  survive. 

With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 
Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 

Of  thee,  my  Adonais!     I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art! 
But  I  am  chained  to  Time,  and  cannot  thence  depart! 

«  O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert. 

Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 

Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty  heart  J 

Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den  ?  M 

Defenseless  as  thou  wert,  oh  where  was  then  " 

Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear? 

Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when  i 

Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent  sphere,  ' 

The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from  thee  like  deer. 

*  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue ; 

The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead; 
The  vultures  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true 

Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed, 

And  whose  wings  rain  contagion;  —  how  they  fled, 
When  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow. 

The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
And  smiled!  —  The  spoilers  tempt  no  second  blow. 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  them  lying  low. 

«The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles  spawn; 

He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn, 

And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again;  — 

So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men: 
A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 

Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven,  and  when 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  shared  its  light 
Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's  awful  night. » 

Thus  ceased  she:  and  the  mountain  shepherds  came, 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent; 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 


13283 


The  pilgrim  of  eternity,  whose  fame 

Over  his  living  head  like  heaven  is  bent, 
An  early  but  enduring  monument, 

Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 
In  sorrow;  from  her  wilds  lerne  sent 

The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong. 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music  from  his  tongue. 

Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail  form, — 

A  phantom  among  men;  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 

Whose  thunder  is  its  knell:  he,  as  I  guess, 

Had  gazed  on  nature's  naked  loveliness, 
Actaeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 

With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness, 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way. 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father  and  their  prey. 

A  pardlike  spirit  beautiful  and  swift; 

A  Love  in  desolation  masked;  —  a  power 
Girt  round  with  weakness:   it  can  scarce  uplift 

The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour;  — 

It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow  —  even  whilst  we  speak 

Is  it  not  broken  ?     On  the  withering  flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly;  on  a  cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart  may  break. 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  overblown. 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue; 

And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone. 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses  grew. 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew. 

Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 

Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it:  of  that  crew 

He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart; 
A  herd-abandoned  deer  struck  by  the  hunter's  dart. 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 

Smiled  through  their  tears;  well  knew  that  gentle  band 
Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own : 

As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land. 

He  sung  new  sorrow,  sad  Urania  scanned 
The  stranger's  mien,  and  murmured,  ^^  Who  art  thou  ?  >* 

He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 


^2^4  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined  brow, 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's— oh,  that  it  should  be  sol 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead  ? 

Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown? 
What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  death-bed. 

In  mockery  of  monumental  stone. 

The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan  ? 
If  it  be  he  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 

Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honored  the  departed  one, 
Let  me  not  vex,  with  inharmonious  sighs. 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison  —  oh! 

What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe  ? 

The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  disown: 

It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and  wrong. 

But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone. 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song. 
Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver  lyre  unstrung. 

Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame! 

Live!  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name! 

But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be! 

And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow: 

Remorse  and  self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thee; 
Hot  shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt  —  as  now. 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 

Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream  below: 

He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead; 

Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. — 
Dust  to  the  dust!   but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 

Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 

Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably  the  same, 
Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid  hearth  of  shame. 

Peace,  peace!  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep; 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life: 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY  13*85 

'Tis  we,  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 
And  in  mad  trance,  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 

Invulnerable  nothings. —  We  decay 

Like  corpses  in  a  charnel;  fear  and  grief 

Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day. 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  living  clay. 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night; 

Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight. 

Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again : 

From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 

A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in  vain; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 

He  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he; 

Mourn  not  for  Adonais.  —  Thou  young  Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendor,  for  from  thee 

The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone ; 

Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan! 
Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains;  and  thou  air, 

Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair! 

He  is  made  one  with  natiire;   there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 

Of  thunder  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird: 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone. 

Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own; 

Which  wields  the  world  with  never-wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 

Which  once  he  made  more  lovely:  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 

Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling  there 

All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear; 
Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 

To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear; 


13286  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men,  into  the  heaven's  light. 

The  splendors  of  the  firmament  of  time 

May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb, 

And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 

The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair. 

And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy  air. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 

Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond  mortal  thought, 
Far  in  the  Unapparent.     Chatterton 

Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not 

Yet  faded  from  him;    Sidney,  as  he  fought  i 

And  as  he  fell,  and  as  he  lived  and  loved, 

Sublimely  mild,  a  spirit  without  spot, 
Arose ;    and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved. 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  earth  are  dark 

But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die, 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark. 

Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 

<<  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,'^  they  cry: 
"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 

Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent  alone  amid  an  heaven  of  song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of  our  throng!" 

Who  mourns  for  Adonais  ?     Oh,  come  forth. 

Fond  wretch !   and  know  thyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous  earth; 

As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 

Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference :  then  shrink 

Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light  lest  it  make  thee  sink  f 

When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to  the  brink. 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre  — 

Oh!  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy:  'tis  naught 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY  13287 

That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 

Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend, —  they  borrow  not 

Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their  prey; 
And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 

Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 

Go  thou  to  Rome,  —  at  once  the  paradise, 

The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness. 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains  rise, 

And  flowering  weeds  and  fragrant  copses  dress 

The  bones  of  desolation's  nakedness, 
Pass  till  the  spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 

Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread. 

And  gray  walls  molder  round,  on  which  dull  time 

Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand : 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime, 
'  Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble;  and  beneath, 

A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  heaven's  smile  their  camp  of  death, 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extinguished  breath. 

Here  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 

Its  charge  to  each;  and  if  the  seal  is  set, 

Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind. 
Break  it  not  thou!  too  surely  shalt  thou  find 

Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home. 

Of  tears  and  gall.     From  the  world's  bitter  wind 

Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb: 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become  ? 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass; 

Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  earth's  shadows  fly; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass. 

Stains  the  white  radiance  of  eternity. 

Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. —  Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost  seek! 

Follow  where  all  is  fled!  —  Rome's  azure  sky. 


13288  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my  heart  ? 

Thy  hopes  are  gone  before;   from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed:  thou  shouldst  now  depart! 

A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year. 

And  man,  and  woman;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 

The  soft  sky  smiles, —  the  low  wind  whispers  near; 
'Tis  Adonais  calls!   oh,  hasten  thither, 
No  more  let  life  divide  what  death  can  join  together. 

That  light  whose  smile  kindles  the  universe, 

That  beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move. 

That  benediction  which  the  eclipsing  curse 

Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  love 
Which,  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 

By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea. 
Burns  bright  or  dim  as  each  are  mirrors  of 

The  fire  for  which  all  thirst, — now  beams  on  me. 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 

Descends  on  me ;   my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 

Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given; 

The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar; 

Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven. 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 


HYMN   TO   INTELLECTUAL   BEAUTY 

THE  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  power 
Floats  though  unseen  amongst  us,  —  visiting 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant  wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to  flower; 
Like  moonbeams  that  behind  some  piny  mountain  showet. 
It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance; 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening,— 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread, — 
Like  memory  of  music  fled, — 
Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 

With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine  upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form, —  where  art  thou  gone? 
Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our  state. 
This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  desolate  ? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  for  ever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain  river, 
Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is  shown. 
Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and  birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom, —  why  man  has  such  a  scope 
For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope  ? 


No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath  ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given; 
Therefore  the  names  of  demon,  ghost,  and  heaven. 
Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavor, — 
Frail  spells,  whose  uttered  charm  might  not  avail  to  sever. 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see. 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 
Thy  light  alone  —  like  mist  o'er  mountains  driven, 
Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument. 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream  — 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet  dream. 

Love,  hope,  and  self-esteem,  like  clouds  depart 
And  come,  for  some  uncertain  moments  lent. 
Man  were  immortal  and  omnipotent 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art, 
Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  state  within  his  heart. 
Thou  messenger  of  sympathies 
That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eyes  — 
Thou  that  to  human  thought  art  nourishment, 
.  Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame ! 
Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came. 
Depart  not  —  lest  the  grave  should  be. 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 


13289 


1329c  PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY 

While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 

Through  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave,  and  ruin. 
And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 
I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our  youth  is  fed; 
I  was  not  heard  —  I  saw  them  not  — 
When,  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  the  sweet  time  when  winds  are  wooing 
All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 
News  of  birds  and  blossoming. 
Sudden  thy  shadow  fell  on  me 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstasy! 

I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 

To  thee  and  thine :  have  I  not  kept  the  vow  ? 
With  beating  heart  and  streaming  eyes,  even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave:  they  have  in  visioned  bowers 
Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 
Outwatched  with  me  the  envious  night; 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow 

Unlinked  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst  free 
This  world  from  its  dark  slavery; 
That  thou,  O  awful  Loveliness, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  cannot  express 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When  noon  is  past;  there  is  a  harmony 
In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky, 
Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  or  seen, 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been! 

Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 
Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 

Its  calm, — to  one  who  worships  thee, 
And  every  form  containing  thee, 
Whom,  Spirit  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 
To  fear  himself  and  love  all  human-kind. 


PERCY   BYSSHE  SHELLEY  1329T 

OZYMANDIAS 

I   MET  a  traveler  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said:  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them,  on  the  sand. 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown, 
And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command. 

Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, — 

The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that  fed; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear:  — 
«My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings: 

Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair!* 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 

Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 


THE    INDIAN    SERENADE 

I  ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night. 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low. 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright; 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me  —  who  knows  how!  — 
To  thy  chamber  window.  Sweet! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream  — 

And  the  Champak  odors  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream; 

The  nightingale's  complaint. 
It  dies  upon  her  heart  — 

As  I  must  on  thine, 

0  beloved  as  thou  art! 

Oh,  lift  me  from  the  grass! 

1  die!     I  faint!     I  fail! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast;— 
Oh,  press  it  to  thine  own  again. 

Where  it  will  break  at  last! 


13292  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


o 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 


WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  autumn's  being, 

Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like   ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 


Yellow  and  black  and  pale  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes;  O  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low. 

Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 

(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill: 

Wild  spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  preserver  —  hear,  O  hear! 

II 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and  ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning:  there  are  spread 

On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge. 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Msnad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 

Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre. 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst  —  O  hear! 

* 

in 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay. 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams. 


PERCY    BYSSHE   SHELLEY  13293 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baias's  bay, 

And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them!   thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 

The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
"The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves  —  O  hear! 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 

Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable!     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven. 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skyey  speed 
Scarce  seemed  a  vision, —  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 

O  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud! 
1  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!     I  bleed! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee :  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is: 

What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  I 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone. 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit  fierce. 
My  spirit!     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  imiverse 

Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth! 
And  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 


13294  PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 

Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy!     O  wind. 

If  winter  comes,  can  spring  be  far  behind? 


THE   SENSITIVE   PLANT 
Part  First 

A  Sensitive  Plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew. 
And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the  light, 
And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  night. 

And  the  spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair. 
Like  the  spirit  of  love  felt  everywhere ; 
And  each  flower  and  herb  on  earth's  dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with  bliss 
In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilderness. 
Like  a  doe  in  the  noontide  with  love's  sweet  want, 
As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 

The  snowdrop,  and  then  the  violet. 
Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet. 
And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odor,  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip  tall, 
And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all. 
Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's  recess, 
Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness; 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale. 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pale, 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green; 

And  the  hyacinth,  purple  and  white  and  blue. 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense, 
It  was  felt  like  an  odor  within  the  sense; 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY  13295 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addrest, 
Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare; 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up, 
As  a  Maenad,  its  moonlight-colored  cup. 
Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye. 
Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky; 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  tuberose. 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows; 
And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime, — 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant  bosom 
Was  prankt  under  boughs  of  embowering  blossom, 
With  golden  and  green  light,  slanting  through 
Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue, 

Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously. 

And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by. 

And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide  and  dance 

With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance. 

And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of  moss, 
Which  led  through  the  garden  along  and  across, 
Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze. 
Some  lost  among  bowers  of  blossoming  trees. 

Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate  bells. 
As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels; 
And  flowrets  which  drooping  as  day  drooped  too 
Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple,  and  blue, 
To  roof  the  glow-worm  from  the  evening  dew. 

And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise 
The  flowers  (as  an  infant's  awakening  eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it). 

When  heaven's  blithe  winds  had  unfolded  them, 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem, 
Shone  smiling  to  heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 

With  the  light  and  the  odor  its  neighbor  shed; 


13296  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love  make  dear, 
Wrapped  and  filled  by  their  mutual  atmosphere. 

But  the  Sensitive  Plant,  which  could  give  small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root, 
Received  inore  than  all;  it  loved  more  than  ever, 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the  giver: 

For  the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright  flower; 
Radiance  and  odor  are  not  its  dower: 
It  loves  even  like  Love,  its  deep  heart  is  full; 
It  desires  what  it  has  not,  the  beautiful ! 

The  light  winds  which  from  unsustaining  wings 
Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings; 
The  beams  which  dart  from  many  a  star 
Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free. 
Like  golden  boats  on  a  sunny  sea, 
Laden  with  light  and  odor,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides  high, 
Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres. 
Each  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it  bears; 

The  quivering  vapors  of  dim  noontide. 
Which  like  a  sea  o'er  the  warm  earth  glide, 
In  which  every  sound  and  odor  and  beam 
Move,  as  reeds  in  a  single  stream, — 

Each  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were 
For  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  bear, 
Whilst  the  lagging  hours  of  the  day  went  by 
Like  windless  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 

And  when  evening  descended  from  heaven  above. 

And  the  earth  was  all  rest,  and  the  air  was  all  love, 

And  delight,  though  less  bright,  was  far  more  deep, 

And  the  day's  veil  fell  from  the  world  of  sleep. 

And  the  beasts  and  the  birds  and  the  insects  were  drowned 
In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound, — 
Whose  waves  never  mark,  though  they  ever  impress 
The  light  sand  which  paves  it,  consciousness,  — 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY  13297 

(Only  overhead  the  sweet  nightingale 

Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might  fail, 

And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 

Were  mixed  with  the  dreams  of  the  Sensitive  Plant,) 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest 
Upgathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest; 
A  sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight. 
The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favorite. 
Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  night. 


THE  CLOUD 

I   BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers. 
From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 
In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast. 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under. 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 
And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers. 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits. 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills  and  the  crags  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  spirit  he  loves  remains: 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile. 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 


13298  PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead; 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings. 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon. 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn: 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear. 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof. 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee. 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent. 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high. 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim. 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape. 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof. 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair. 

Is  the  million-colored  bow; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove. 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 


I 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SflELLEY  1 3299 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die, 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain. 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams. 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


H 


TO   A   SKYLARK 

AIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 
Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven. 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight, 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear. 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel,  that  it  is  there. 


133°°  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not: 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden. 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not; 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace-tower. 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower; 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view; 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass. 
Rain-awakened  flowers. 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY  ^3301 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt. 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields  or  waves  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?   what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

•With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou  lovest;   but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream. 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, — 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  groundl 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, — 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


I3302  PERCY    BYSSHE   SHELLEY 


ARETHUSA 

ARETHUSA  arose 
From  her  couch  of  snows 
In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains: 
From  cloud  and  from  crag. 
With  many  a  jag, 
Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 
She  leapt  down  the  rocks, 
With  her  rainbow  locks 
Streaming  among  the  streams;  — 
Her  steps  paved  with  green 
The  downward  ravine 
Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams; 
And  gliding  and  springing 
She  went,  ever  singing, 
In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep: 

The  earth  seemed  to  love  her, 

And  heaven  smiled  above  her. 

As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 

Then  Alpheus  bold, 

On  his  glacier  cold, 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook. 

And  opened  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks;  —  with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south  wind 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow, 
_^.  And  earthquake  and  thunder 

et"  Did  rend  in  sunder 

The  bars  of  the  springs  below. 

The  beard  and  the  hair 

Of  the  River-god  were 
Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep. 

As  he  followed  the  light 

Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 
To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

<<0h,  save  me!    Oh,  guide  me  I 
And  bid  the  deep  hide  me, 
For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair!»  ' 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY  13303 

The  loud  Ocean  heard. 

To  its  blue  depth  stirred, 
And  divided  at  her  prayer: 

And  under  the  water 

The  Earth's  white  daughter 
Fled  like  a  sunny  beam ; 

Behind  her  descended 

Her  billows,  unblended 
With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream;  — 

Like  a  gloomy  stain 

On  the  emerald  main 
Alpheus  rushed  behind, — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 

A  dove  to  its  ruin 
Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind- 
Under  the  bowers 

Where  the  Ocean  Powers 
Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones, 

Through  the  coral  woods 

Of  the  weltering  floods, 
Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones; 

Through  the  dim  beams 

Which  amid  the  streams 
Weave  a  network  of  colored  light; 

And  under  the  caves, 

Where  the  shadowy  waves 
Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night;  — 

Outspeeding  the  shark, 

And  the  sword-fish  dark, 
Under  the  ocean  foam. 

And  up  through  the  rifts 

Of  the  mountain  clifts. 
They  past  to  their  Dorian  home. 

And  now  from  their  fountains 

In  Enna's  mountains, 
Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks. 

Like  friends  once  parted 

Grown  single-hearted. 
They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 

At  sunrise  they  leap 

From  their  cradles  steep 
In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill; 


13304 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

At  noontide  they  flow 

Through  the  woods  below 
And  the  meadows  of  Asphodel; 

And  at  night  they  sleep 

In  the  rocking  deep 
Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore;  — 

Like  spirits  that  lie 

In  the  azure  sky 
When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 


HYMN   OF   PAN 

FROM  the  forests  and  highlands 
We  come,  we  come; 
From  the  river-girt  islands, 
Where  loud  waves  are  dumb 

Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes. 

The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme. 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  bushes, 
The  cicale  above  in  the  lime. 
And  the  lizards  below  in  the  grass. 
Were  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus  was 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 

Liquid  Peneus  was  flowing, 
And  all  dark  Tempe  lay 
In  Pelion's  shadow,  outgrowing 
The  light  of  the  dying  day. 

Speeded  by  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  Sileni,  and  Sylvans,  and  Fauns, 

And  the  Nymphs  of  the  woods  and  waves, 
To  the  edge  of  the  moist  river-lawns. 
And  the  brink  of  the  dewy  caves. 
And  all  that  did  then  attend  and  follow, 
Were  silent  with  love,  as  you  now,  Apollo, 
With  envy  of  my  sweet  pipings, 

I  sang  of  the  dancing  stars, 

I  sang  of  the  daedal  earth, 
And  of  heaven, —  and  the  giant  wars. 

And  love,  and  death,  and  birth, — 
And  then  I  changed  my  pipings. — 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY  13  3°  5 

Singing  how  down  the  vale  of  Menalus 
I  pursued  a  maiden  and  clasped  a  reed: 

Gods  and  men,  we  are  all  deluded  thus! 

It  breaks  in  our  bosom  and  then  we  bleed: 

All  wept,  as  I  think  both  ye  now  would, 

If  envy  or  age  had  not  frozen  your  blood, 
At  the  sorrow  of  my  sweet  pipings. 


TO  NIGHT 

SWIFTLY  walk  over  the  western  wave, 
Spirit  of  Night! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 
Thou  wbvest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear. 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear — 
Swift  be  thy  flight! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray. 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day; 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand  — 

Come,  long  sought! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone. 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree. 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouldst  thou  me  ? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmured  like  a  noontide  bee, 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 
Wouldst  thou  me? — And  I  replied, 

No,  not  thee! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 
Soon,  too  soon; 


13306  PERCY   BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled: 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night  — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 
Come  soon,  soon! 


TO 


ONE  word  is  too  often  profaned 
For  me  to  profane  it. 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 
For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 
For  prudence  to  smother. 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 
Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  heavens  reject  not, — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  ovir  sorrow? 


I 


13307 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE 
(1 7 14-1763) 

JuRNiNG  over  the  pages  of  a  certain  eighteenth-century  an- 
nual, the  reader  comes  upon  a  brown  and  yellow  engraving 
of  a  landscape  garden:  of  walks  in  undulating  curves,  mini- 
ature lakes,  little  white  cascades,  Greek  temples,  pines  and  cypresses 
cut  in  grotesque  shapes.  Aquatic  birds  peer  from  out  the  reeds,  and 
doves  flutter  in  the  trees.     Beneath  the  picture  is  written: — 

«Oh,  may  that  genius  which  secures  my  rest, 
Preserve  this  villa  for  a  friend  that's  near. 
Ne'er  make  my  vintage  glad  the  sordid  breast. 
Ne'er  tinge  the  lip  that  dares  be  insincere.* 

The  villa  referred  to,  were  it  visible,  would, 
according  to  the  owner's  biographer,  prove 
to  be  "  mean ;  for  he  did  not  improve  it. 
When  he  came  home  from  his  walks,  he 
might  find  the  floors  flooded  by  a  shower 
through  the  broken  roof,  but  could  spare  no 
money  for  its  reparation.  *> 

Would  that  the  artist  of  the  engraving 
of  Leasowes,  famous  in  song  and  story,  had 
introduced  that   biographer  and  his  subject 

into  the  picture, —  Shenstone,  ^Harger  than  the  middle  size,  somewhat 
clumsy  in  his  form,  decked  in  crimson  waistcoat  and  white  breeches, 
his  gray  hair  streaming  on  his  shoulders,**  leading  the  wheezy,  sneez- 
ing Johnson  in  front  of  some  simpering  Italian  divinity  set  in  a  damp 
grotto,  and  bidding  him  admire  her!  But  Shenstone,  like  most  minor 
poets  of  whom  Johnson  wrote,  was  unfortunate  in  having  Johnson 
for  a  critic.  There  was  no  possible  sympathy  between  the  two.  John- 
son hated  the  country,  hated  affectation,  hated  a  poseur.  Shenstone 
was  the  child  of  his  time,  whose  literary  progenitors  were  poets  of 
fashionable  society:  the  child  of  the  time  when  the  changes  were 
rung  on  Damons,  Melissas,  Philomels,  and  Cynthias;  when  Phoebus 
was  invoked,  and  Delia's  eyebrows  inspired  a  sonnet.  Coming  close 
on  the  heels  of  a  generation  of  poetasters,  Shenstone  could  think  of 
no  better  way  of  realizing  Pope's  ideal  in  the  ^  Ode  to  Solitude*  than 
to  retire  to  his  country  seat,  and  seek  the  admiration  of  the  world  as 


Shenstone 


13308  WILLIAM   SHENSTONE 

an  Arcadian  hermit.  He  owes  his  distinction  to-  his  choice  of  sub- 
jects and  his  peculiarity  of  life,  as  much  as  to  his  verses.  No  poet 
of  the  same  pretension  is  so  well  known  by  his  residence.  Without 
Leasowes,  the  *■  Elegies  ^  might  have  lain  on  the  dustiest  of  book- 
shelves, and  *  The  Schoolmistress  ^  have  scarcely  sustained  enough 
vitality  to  survive.  But  through  Leasowes,  Shenstone  lives.  In  his 
day,  landscape  gardening  was  a  novelty;  and  in  adorning  his  little 
estate  he  gratified  his  taste,  his  innocent  vanity,  and  his  indolence. 
The  feet  of  his  stanzas  are  as  ingeniously  varied  as  the  walks 
through  his  domain.  The  flights  of  his  Muse  were  bounded  by  the 
limits  of  his  estate ;  but  they  were  not  less  inventive  and  fantastic 
than  the  little  surprises  and  turns  of  wood  and  waterfall,  nor  less 
musical  than  the  songs  of  his  birds.  The  deaths  of  his  friends  were 
commemorated  by  Grecian  urns  under  weeping  willows,  and  then  by 
elegies  inspired  by  the  urns. 

The  revolution  which  has  taken  place  in  English  poetry  has  flat- 
tened Shenstone's  verses;  and  to  realize  the  reaction  from  the  ex- 
treme of  artificial  pathos  to  straightforward,  manly  expression,  one 
has  but  to  read  his  once  popular  <  Jemmy  Dawson,^  and  *  The  Dying 
Kid,*  and  then  Hood's  <  Eugene  Aram,*  and  Wordsworth's  <  White 
Doe  of  Rylstone*  —  which,  but  for  the  feeble  ballads  of  the  Leasowes 
poet,  might  never  have  been  written. 

Johnson's  criticism  of  the  ^  Pastoral  Ballad  *  is  not  less  interesting 
as  betraying  his  notion  of  the  province  of  poetry  than  as  a  criticism 
of  Shenstone.  « I  cannot  but  regret  that  it  is  pastoral :  an  intelligent 
reader,  acquainted  with  the  scenes  of  real  life,  sickens  at  the  mention 
of  the  crook,  the  pipe,  the  sheep,  and  the  kids,  which  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  bring  forward  to  notice;  for  the  poet's  art  is  selection,  and  he 
ought  to  show  the  beauties  without  the  grossness  of  country  life.** 

But  the  volume  Johnson  scorned,  beguiled  many  of  Shenstone's 
cultivated  contemporaries  by  its  mellifluous  seesaw,  and  its  jingling 
resonance  comes  back  to  the  reader  of  to-day. 

«I  have  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair: 
I  have  found  where  the  wood-pigeons  breed.** 

The  elegiac  form  and  triple  rhythm  please  the  fancy  in  the  still 
remembered 

«Yet  time  may  diminish  the  pain.* 

Shenstone  made  no  mean  rank  for  himself,  in  the  time  when 
people  were  reading  Pope's  Homer,  Addison's  <Cato,*  and  Dodsley's 
< Economy  of  Human  Life,*  —  the  < Proverbial  Philosophy*  of  his  day. 
*  The  Schoolmistress  *  is  a  sketch  drawn  from  life,  and  in  versification 
and  style  closely  imitated  Spenser.     Goldsmith  and  Gray  both  knew 


WILLIAM   SHENSTONE  1 3  309 

it;  and  profited  by  its  beauties  and  its  faults  when  they  wrote  *  The 
Deserted  Village  >  and  ^The  Elegy  in  a  Country  Church-yard.  > 

Shenstone's  < Essays'  are  quiet  moralizings  about  Leasowes;  though 
he  could  be  playfully  humorous  now  and  then,  as  when  he  said:  — 
"  I  have  an  alcove  [his  villa],  six  elegies,  a  seat,  two  eulogies  (one  on 
myself),  four  songs,  and  a  serpentine  river,  to  show  you  when  you 
come." 

He  had  a  queer  vanity  to  be  thought  a  scholar;  which  made  him 
keep  his  name  on  the  Oxford  books  (Pembroke  was  his  college)  for 
ten  years,  though  he  never  studied  enough  to  take  a  degree.  Gray 
ridiculed  his  love  of  the  great,  and  his  affected  pose  as  a  recluse ;  but 
one  can  fancy  the  proud,  shy  creature  peeping  through  some  high 
latticed  window  when  the  guests  from  Hagley,  Lord  Lyttelton's  estate, 
arrived, —  maddened,  as  one  of  Shenstone's  commentators  remarks,  if 
they  took  the  wrong  direction,  and  frantic  lest  the  exclamations  he 
heard  were  in  derision,  not  pleasure. 

He  was  born  at  Leasowes  in  November  17 14,  and  died  there  of  a 
"putrid  fever,**  —  as  Dr.  Johnson  describes  it,  not  without  some  satis- 
faction as  a  fit  ending  for  so  ill-regulated  a  life, —  February  nth,  1763. 
The  great  man's  opinion  of  our  poet  is  however  fairly  just,  and  not 
unkindly. 

"  His  good  qualities  are  earnestness  and  simplicity.  Had  his  mind 
been  better  stored  with  knowledge,  whether  he  would  have  been  a 
g^eat  man  or  not,  I  know  not:  he  certainly  would  have  been  ag^ree- 
able.» 

He  published  <  Miscellanies  *  (1737),  ^The  Judgment  of  Hercules' 
(1740),  <  The  Schoolmistress*  (1742);  and  ^Elegies;  Songs,  and  Pas- 
toral Ballads'  (1743),  edited  by  his  friend  Dodsley.  His  *  Letters  and 
Essays*  appeared  in  1750. 


PASTORAL  BALLAD 

SINCE  Phyllis  vouchsafed  me  a  look, 
I  never  once  dreamt  of  my  vine: 
May  I  lose  both  my  pipe  and  my  crook, 
If  I  knew  of  a  kid  that  was  mine! 
I  prized  every  hour  that  went  by. 

Beyond  all  that  had  pleased  me  before; 
But  now  they  are  past,  and  I  sigh; 

And  I  grieve  that  I  prize  them  no  more. 

But  why  do  I  languish  in  vain; 

Why  wander  thus  pensively  here  ? 


^33^° 


WILLIAM   SHENSTONE 

Ohi  why  did  I  come  from  the  plain 

Where  I  fed  on  the  smiles  of  my  dear? 

They  tell  me  my  favorite  maid, 

The  pride  of  that  valley,  is  flown: 

Alas!  where  with  her  I  have  strayed, 
I  could  wander  with  pleasure  alone. 

When  forced  the  fair  nymph  to  forego. 

What  anguish  I  felt  at  my  heart! 
Yet  I  thought  —  but  it  might  not  be  so  — 

'Twas  with  pain  that  she  saw  me  depart. 
She  gazed  as  I  slowly  withdrew,— 

My  path  I  could  hardly  discern: 
So  sweetly  she  bade  me  adieu, 

I  thought  that  she  bade  me  return. 

The  pilgrim  that  journeys  all  day 

To  visit  some  far  distant  shrine, 
If  he  bear  but  a  relic  away 

Is  happy,  nor  heard  to  repine. 
Thus  widely  removed  from  the  fair 

Where  my  vows,  my  devotion,  I  owe,— 
Soft  Hope  is  the  relic  I  bear, 

And  my  solace  wherever  I  go. 


SONG 

I  TOLD  my  nymph,  I  told  her  true, 
My  fields  were  small,  my  flocks  were  few; 
While  faltering  accents  spoke  my  fear 
That  Flavia  might  not  prove  sincere. 

Of  crops  destroyed  by  vernal  cold, 
And  vagrant  sheep  that  left  my  fold, — 
Of  these  she  heard,  yet  bore  to  hear: 
And  is  not  Flavia  then  sincere  ? 

How,  changed  by  Fortune's  fickle  wind, 
The  friends  I  loved  became  unkind, 
She  heard,  and  shed  a  generous  tear: 
And  is  not  Flavia  then  sincere? 

How,  if  she  deigned  my  love  to  bless, 
My  Flavia  must  not  hope  for  dress, — 


WILLIAM   SHENSTONE  133 1 1 

This  too  she  heard,  and  smiled  to  hear; 
And  Flavia,  sure,  must  be  sincere. 

Go  shear  your  flocks,  ye  jovial  swains! 
Go  reap  the  plenty  of  your  plains; 
Despoiled  of  all  which  you  revere, 
I  know  my  Flavia's  love  sincere. 


DISAPPOINTMENT 
From  <A  Pastoral  > 

YE  shepherds!  give  ear  to  my  lay. 
And  take  no  more  heed  of  my  sheep: 
They  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  stray, 
I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  weep. 
Yet  do  not  my  folly  reprove: 

She  was  fair  —  and  my  passion  begun; 
She  smiled  —  and  I  could  not  but  love; 
She  is  faithless  —  and  I  am  undone. 

Perhaps  I  was  void  of  all  thought; 

Perhaps  it  was  plain  to  foresee 
That  a  nymph  so  complete  would  be  sought 

By  a  swain  more  engaging  tnan  me. 
Ah !  love  every  hope  can  inspire : 

It  banishes  wisdom  the  while. 
And  the  lip  of  the  nymph  we  admire 

Seems  forever  adorned  with  a  smile. 

She  is  faithless,  and  I  am  undone : 

Ye  that  witness  the  woes  I  endure, 
Let  reason  instruct  you  to  shun 

What  it  cannot  instruct  you  to  cure. 
Beware  how  you  loiter  in  vain 

Amid  nymphs  of  a  higher  degree: 
It  is  not  for  me  to  explain 

How  fair  and  how  fickle  they  be. 

Alas!   from  the  day  that  we  met. 
What  hope  of  an  end  to  my  woes, 

When  I  cannot  endure  to  forget 

The  glance  that  undid  my  repose  ? 

Yet  time  may  diminish  the  pain; 

The  flower,  and  the  shrub,  and  the  tree. 


133 1 2  WILLIAM   SHENSTONE 

Which  I  reared  for  her  pleasure  in  vain, 
In  time  may  have  comfort  for  me. 

The  sweets  of  a  dew-sprinkled  rose. 

The  sound  of  a  murmuring  stream, 
The  peace  which  from  solitude  flows, 

Henceforth  shall  be  Corydon's  theme. 
High  transports  are  shown  to  the  sight, 

But  we're  not  to  find  them  our  own : 
Fate  never  bestowed  such  delight 

As  I  with  my  Phyllis  had  known. 

0  ye  woods,  spread  your  branches  apace! 
To  your  deepest  recesses  I  fly; 

1  would  hide  with  the  beasts  of  the  chase, 

I  would  vanish  from  every  eye. 
Yet  my  reed  shall  resound  through  the  grove 

With  the  same  sad  complaint  it  begun: 
How  she  smiled,  and  I  could  not  but  love! 

Was  faithless,  and  I  am  undone! 


HOPE 
From  <A  PastoraP 

MY  BANKS  they  are  furnished  with  bees. 
Whose  murmur  invites  one  to  sleep; 
My  grottoes  are  shaded  with  trees, 
,  And  my  hills  are  white  over  with  sheep. 
I  seldom  have  met  with  a  loss. 

Such  health  do  my  fountains  bestow, — 
My  fountains,  all  bordered  with  moss. 
Where  the  harebells  and  violets  grow. 

Not  a  pine  in  my  grove  is  there  seen 

But  with  tendrils  of  woodbine  is  bound; 
Not  a  beech's  more  beautiful  green 

But  a  sweetbrier  entwines  it  around; 
Not  my  fields,  in  the  prime  of  the  year, 

More  charms  than  my  cattle  unfold; 
Not  a  brook  that  is  limpid  and  clear. 

But  it  glitters  with  fishes  of  gold. 

One  would  think  she  might  like  to  retire 
To  the  bower  I  have  labored  to  rear; 


WILLIAM   SHENSTONE  133 1 3 

Not  a  shrub  that  I  heard  her  admire, 

But  I  hasted  and  planted  it  there. 
Oh,  how  sudden  the  jessamine  strove 

With  the  lilac  to  render  it  gay! 
Already  it  calls  for  my  love 

To  prune  the  wild  branches  away. 

From  the  plain,  from  the  woodlands  and  groves. 

What  strains  of  wild  melody  flow! 
How  the  nightingales  warble  their  loves 

From  thickets  of  roses  that  blow! 
And  when  her  bright  form  shall  appear, 

Each  bird  shall  harmoniously  join 
In  a  concert  so  soft  and  so  clear 

As  —  she  may  not  be  fond  to  resign. 

I  have  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair: 

I  have  found  where  the  wood-pigeons  breed— 
But  let  me  that  plunder  forbear, 

She  will  say  'twas  a  barbarous  deed: 
For  he  ne'er  could  be  true,  she  averred. 

Who  could  rob  a  poor  bird  of  its  young; 
And  I  loved  her  the  more  when  I  heard 

Such  tenderness  fall  from  her  tongue. 

I  have  heard  her  with  sweetness  unfold 

How  that  pity  was  due  to  —  a  dove; 
That  it  ever  attended  the  bold. 

And  she  called  it  the  sister  of  Love. 
But  her  words  such  a  pleasure  convey. 

So  much  I  her  accents  adore, — 
Let  her  speak,  and  whatever  she  say, 

Methinks  I  should  love  her  the  more. 

Can  a  bosom  so  gentle  remain 

Unmoved  when  her  Corydon  sighs? 
Will  a  nymph  that  is  fond  of  the  plain, 

These  plains  and  this  valley  despise  ? 
Dear  regions  of  silence  and  shade! 

Soft  scenes  of  contentment  and  ease! 
Where  I  could  have  pleasingly  strayed  — 

If  aught  in  her  absence  could  please. 

But  where  does  my  Phyllida  stray? 
And  where  are  her  grots  and  her  bowers? 


13314  WILLIAM    SHENSTONE 

Are  the  groves  and  the  valleys  as  gay, 
And  the  shepherds  as  gentle  as  ours? 

The  groves  may  perhaps  be  as  fair, 
And  the  face  of  the  valleys  as  fine; 

The  swains  may  in  manners  compare. 
But  their  love  is  not  equal  to  mine. 


MUCH    TASTE  AND   SMALL   ESTATE. 
From  <The  Progress  of  Taste  > 

SEE  yonder  hill,  so  green,  so  round, 
Its  brow  with  ambient  beeches  crowned! 
'Twould  well  become  thy  gentle  care 
To  raise  a  dome  to  Venus  there : 
Pleased  would  the  nymphs  thy  zeal  survey; 
And  Venus,  in  their  arms,  repay. 
'Twas  such  a  shade,  and  such  a  nook 
In  such  a  vale,  near  such  a  brook 
From  such  a  rocky  fragment  springing, 
That  famed  Apollo  chose,  to  sing  in. 
There  let  an  altar  wrought  with  art 
Engage  thy  tuneful  patron's  heart: 
How  charming  there  to  muse  and  warble 
Beneath  his  bust  of  breathing  marble! 
With  laurel  wreath  and  mimic  lyre 
That  crown  a  poet's  vast  desire. 
Then,  near  it,  scoop  the  vaulted  cell 
Where  Music's  charming  maids  may  dwell; 
Prone  to  indulge  thy  tender  passion, 
And  make  thee  many  an  assignation. 
Deep  in  the  grove's  obscure  retreat 
Be  placed  Minerva's  sacred  seat; 
There  let  her  awful  turrets  rise 
(For  Wisdom  flies  from  vulgar  eyes): 
There  her  calm  dictates  shalt  thou  hear 
Distinctly  strike  thy  listening  ear; 
And  who  would  shun  the  pleasing  labor 
To  have  Minerva  for  his  neighbor  ?    .     .     , 
But  did  the  Muses  haunt  his  cell  ? 
Or  in  his  dome  did  Venus  dwell  ? 
Did  Pallas  in  his  counsels  share  ? 
The  Delian  god  reward  his  prayer  ? 
Or  did  his  zeal  engage  the  fair  ? 


WILLIAM   SHENSTONE  ^331  5 

When  all  the  structures  shone  complete, — 
Not  much  convenient,  wondrous  neat; 
Adorned  with  gilding,  painting,  planting, 
And  the  fair  guests  alone  were  wanting, — 
Ah  me!  ('twas  Damon's  own  confession), 
Came  Poverty  and  took  possession. 


FROM  <THE   SCHOOLMISTRESS) 

A  RUSSET  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders  thrown, 
A  russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping  air; 
'Twas  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own: 

'Twas  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so  fair; 
'Twas  her  own  labor  did  the  fleece  prepare : 
And  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils,  ranged  around, 

Through  pious  awe  did  term  it  passing  rare; 
For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound, 
And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest  wight  on  ground! 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt  her  truth, 

Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear; 
Goody,  good-woman,  gossip,  n'aunt,  forsooth. 

Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did  hear: 

Yet  these  she  challenged,  these  she  held  right  dear; 
Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought  behove. 

Who  should  not  honored  eld  with  these  revere : 
For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove. 
But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which  did  that  title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed. 

The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame; 
Which  ever  and  anon,  impelled  by  need. 

Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens,  came! 

Such  favor  did  her  past  deportment  claim : 
And  if  Neglect  had  lavished  on  the  ground 

Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect  the  same; 
For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  expound, 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb  she  found. 

Herbs  too  she  knew,  and  wen  of  each  could  speak, 
That  in  her  garden  sipped  the  silvery  dew, 

Where  no  vain  flower  disclosed  a  gaudy  streak; 
But  herbs  for  use  and  physic  not  a  few, 
Of  gray  renown,  within  these  borders  grew, — 


133^^ 


WILLIAM   SHENSTONE 

The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme, 

Fresh  balm,  and  marygold  of  cheerful  hue,    • 
The  lowly  gill  that  never  dares  to  climb: 
And  more  I  fain  would  sing,  disdaining  here  to  rhyme. 

Yet  euphrasy  may  not  be  left  unsung. 

That  gives  dim  eyes  to  wander  leagues  around; 
And  pungent  radish,  biting  infant's  tongue; 

And  plantain  ribbed,  that  heals  the  reaper's  wound; 

And  marjoram"  sweet,  in  shepherd's  posie  found; 
And  lavender,  whose  spikes  of  azure  bloom 

Shall  be  erewhile  in  arid  bundles  bound. 
To  lurk  amid  the  labors  of  her  loom. 
And  crown  her  kerchiefs  clean  with  mickle  rare  perfume. 

And  here  trim  rosemarine,  that  whilom  crowned 
The  daintiest  garden  of  the  proudest  peer, 

Ere,  driven  from  its  envied  site,  it  found 
A  sacred  shelter  for  its  branches  here, 
Where  edged  with  gold  its  glittering  skirts  appear. 

O  wassel  days!     O  customs  meet  and  well! 
Ere  this  was  banished  from  its  lofty  sphere! 

Simplicity  then  sought  this  humble  cell. 
Nor  ever  would  she  more  with  thane  and  lordling  dwell. 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN 


^33n 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

(1751-1816) 

BY   BRANDER   MATTHEWS 

jiCHARD  Brinsley  Sheridan  WES  the  most  distinguished  mem- 
ber of  a  distinguished  family.  His  grandfather  was  Dr. 
Sheridan,  the  friend  and  correspondent  of  Swift.  His  father 
was  Thomas  Sheridan,  elocutionist,  actor,  manager,  and  lexicographer. 
His  mother  was  Frances  Sheridan,  author  of  the  comedy  of  ^The 
Discovery  >  (acted  by  David  Garrick),  and  of  the  novel  *  Miss  Sidney 
Biddulph*  (praised  by  Samuel  Johnson).  His  three  granddaughters, 
known  as  the  beautiful  Sheridans,  became,  one  the  Duchess  of  Som- 
erset, another  the  Countess  of  Dufferin,  and  the  third  the  Hon.  Mrs. 
Norton  (afterward  Lady  Stirling-Maxwell).  His  great-grandson  is 
Lord  Dufferin,  author  and  diplomatist.  Thus,  in  six  generations 
of  the  family,  remarkable  power  of  one  kind  or  another  has  been 
revealed. 

Richard  Brinsley  was  born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  in  September  1751. 
Before  he  was  ten  the  family  moved  to  England;  and  he  was  pres- 
ently sent  to  Harrow.  Later  he  received  from  his  father  lessons  in 
elocution,  which  he  was  destined  to  turn  to  account  in  Parliament. 
Before  he  was  nineteen  the  family  settled  in  Bath,  then  the  resort  of 
fashion.  Here  the  young  man  observed  life,  wrote  brilliant  bits  of 
verse,  and  fell  in  love  with  Miss  Linley.  The  Linleys  were  all  musi- 
cians: Miss  Elizabeth  Linley  was  a  public  singer  of  g^reat  promise; 
she  was  not  seventeen  when  Sheridan  first  met  her.  She  was  beset 
by  suitors,  with  one  of  whom,  a  disreputable  Captain  Mathews  (who 
was  the  author  of  a  good  book  on  whist),  the  future  dramatist  fought 
two  duels.  Sheridan  eloped  with  Miss  Linley  to  France;  and  after 
many  obstacles,  the  course  of  true  love  ran  smooth  at  last  and  the 
young  pair  were  married.  Although  he  was  wholly  without  fortune, 
the  husband  withdrew  his  wife  from  the  stage. 

Sheridan's  education  had  been  fragmentary,  and  he  lacked  serious 
training.  But  he  had  wit  and  self-confidence;  and  he  determined  to 
turn  dramatist.  His  father  was  an  actor,  his  mother  had  written 
plays,  and  his  father-in-law  was  a  composer;  and  so  the  stage  door 
swung  wide  open  before  him.  His  first  piece,  the  five-act  comedy 
the   <  Rivals,  >   was   brought   out   at   Covent   Garden   Theatre,    January 


^33^^ 


RICHARD   BRTISTSLEY    SHERIDAN 


17th,  1775;  and  it  then  failed  blankly,  as  it  did  again  on  a  second 
performance.  Withdrawn  and  revised,  it  was  soon  reproduced  with 
approval.  A  similar  experience  is  recorded  of  the  ^  Barber  of  Seville,* 
the  first  comedy  of  Beaumarchais,  whose  career  is  not  without  points 
of  resemblance  to  Sheridan's.  The  ^  Rivals '  and  the  *  Barber  of  Se- 
ville ^  are  among  the  few  comedies  of  the  eighteenth  century  which 
will  survive  into  the  twentieth. 

In  gratitude  to  the  actor  who  had  played  Sir  Lucius  O 'Trigger, 
Sheridan  improvised  the  farce  of  <  St.  Patrick's  Day ;  or.  The  Scheming 
Lieutenant?;  brought  out  May  2d,  1775,  and  long  since  dropped  out  of 
the  list  of  acting  plays.  During  the  summer  he  wrote  the  book  of  a 
comic  opera,  the  ^Duenna,*  for  which  his  father-in-law  Linley  pre- 
pared the  score,  and  which  was  produced  at  Covent  Garden  Novem- 
ber 2ist,  1775, — making  three  new  plays  which  the  young  dramatist 
had  brought  out  within  the  year. 

The  great  actor,  David  Garrick,  who  had  managed  Drury  Lane 
Theatre  with  the  utmost  skill  for  many  years,  was  now  about  to 
retire.  He  owned  half  of  the  theatre,  and  this  half  he  sold  to  Sheri- 
dan and  to  some  of  Sheridan's  friends;  and  a  little  later  Sheridan 
was  able  to  buy  the  other  half  also,  paying  for  it  not  in  cash,  but 
by  assuming  mortgages  and  granting  annuities.  It  was  in  the  middle 
of  1776  that  David  Garrick  was  succeeded  in  the  management  of 
Drury  Lane  Theatre  by  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  who  was  then  not 
yet  twenty-five  years  old. 

The  first  new  play  of  the  new  manager  was  only  an  old  comedy 
altered.  <A  Trip  to  Scarborough,*  acted  February  24th,  1777,  was  a 
deodorized  version  of  Vanbrugh's  *  Relapse  * ;  rather  better  than  most 
of  the  revisions  of  old  plays,  and  yet  a  disappointment  to  the  play- 
goers who  were  awaiting  a  new  comedy.  The  new  comedy  came  at 
last  in  the  spring,  and  those  who  had  high  expectations  were  not  dis- 
appointed. It  was  on  May  8th,  1777,  that  the  <  School  for  Scandal' 
was  acted  for  the  first  time,  with  immense  success, —  a  success  which 
bids  fair  to  endure  yet  another  century  and  a  quarter.  With  a  stronger 
dramatic  framework  than  the  <  Rivals,*  and  a  slighter  proportion  of 
broad  farce,  the  ^  School  for  Scandal  *  is  as  effective  in  the  acting  as 
its  predecessor,  while  it  repays  perusal  far  better. 

When  Garrick  died,  early  in  1779,  Sheridan  wrote  a  <  Monody,*  to 
be  recited  at  the  theatre  the  incomparable  actor  had  so  long  directed. 
And  in  the  fall  of  that  year,  on  October  30th,  1779,  he  brought  out 
the  brightest  of  farces  and  the  best  of  burlesques,  *  The  Critic;  or, 
A  Tragedy  Rehearsed*;  a  delightful  piece  of  theatrical  humor, — 
suggested  by  Buckingham's  <  Rehearsal,*  no  doubt,  but  distinctly 
superior.  The  *  Critic,*  like  the  <  Rivals*  and  the  <  School  for  Scandal,* 
continues   to  be  acted  both  in  Great  Britain  and  the  United   States. 


II 
jl 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  1 33 19 

Sheridan's  best  plays  have  revealed  a  sturdy  vitality,  and  a  faculty  of 
readaptation  to  changing  theatrical  conditions.  After  the  production 
of  the  <  Critic,^  Sheridan  did  not  again  appear  before  the  public  as 
an  original  dramatist.  Perhaps  he  was  jealous  of  his  reputation;  and, 
aware  of  the  limit  of  his  powers,  he  knew  that  he  could  not  sur- 
pass the  *  School  for  Scandal.^  Just  as  Moliere  used  to  talk  about  his 
*  Homme  de  Cour,'  which  he  had  not  begun  when  he  died,  so  Sheridan 
used  to  talk  about  a  comedy  to  be  called  ^Affectation,^  for  which  he 
had  done  no  more  than  jot  down  a  few  stray  notes  and  suggestions. 
Thereafter  he  confined  himself  to  the  outlining  of  plots  for  pan- 
tomimes, and  to  improving  the  plays  of  other  authors.  Thus  the 
<  Stranger  >  indubitably  owed  some  of  its  former  effectiveness  in  Eng- 
lish to  his  adroit  touch.  Perhaps  it  was  the  success  of  the  *■  Stranger  * 
which  led  him  to  rework  another  of  Kotzebue's  plays  into  a  rather 
turgid  melodrama  with  a  high-patriotic  flavor.  This,  ^Pizarro,*  was 
produced  on  May  24th,  1799;  and  it  hit  the  temper  of  the  time  so 
skillfully  that  it  filled  all  the  theatres  in  England  for  many  months. 

But  long  before  this,  Sheridan  had  entered  into  political  life.  He 
took  his  seat  in  Parliament  in  1780, —  being  then  not  yet  thirty.  His 
first  speech  was  a  failure,  as  his  first  play  had  been.  But  he  per- 
severed ;  and  in  time  he  became  as  completely  master  of  the  platform 
as  he  was  of  the  stage.  He  was  a  Whig;  and  when  Fox  and  North 
.drove  out  Shelburne,  Sheridan  was  Secretary  of  the  Treasury:  but 
the  Whigs  went  out  in  1783.  When  Burke  impeached  Warren  Hast- 
ings, Sheridan  was  one  of  the  managers  of  the  prosecution;  and  in 
the  course  of  the  proceedings  he  delivered  two  speeches,  the  recorded 
effect  of  which  was  simply  marvelous. 

In  1792  Sheridan's  wife  died,  and  from  that  hour  the  fortune  that 
had  waxed  so  swiftly  waned  as  surely.  He  neglected  the  theatre  for 
politics,  and  his  debts  began  to  harass  him.  He  married  again  in 
1795;  but  it  may  be  doubted  whether  this  second  marriage  was  not 
a  mistake.  In  1809  Drury  Lane  was  burnt  to  the  ground;  and  Sher- 
idan had  rebuilt  it  at  enormous  cost  only  fifteen  years  before.  This 
fire  ruined  him.  In  18 12  he  made  his  last  speech  in  Parliament.  In 
181 5  he  suffered  the  indignity  of  arrest  for  debt.  He  died  on  July 
7th,   1816. 

Sheridan's  indebtedness  was  found  to  be  less  than  ;£5.ooo:  that 
it  had  not  been  paid  long  before  was  due  to  his  procrastination,  his 
carelessness,  and  his  total  lack  of  business  training.  He  seems  to 
have  allowed  himself  to  be  swindled  right  and  left.  In  other  ways 
also  is  his  character  not  easy  to  apprehend  aright.  In  his  political 
career  he  unhesitatingly  sacrificed  place  to  patriotism ;  and  during  the 
mutiny  at  the  Nore  he  put  party  advantage  behind  him.  and  came 
forward  to  urge  the  course  of  conduct  best  for  the  country  as  a  whole. 


1^220  RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

In  his  private  life  he  was  not  altogether  circumspect;  but  he  lived  in 
days  when  it  was  thought  no  disgrace  for  a  statesman  to  be  over- 
taken with  wine.     In  all  things  he  was  his  own  worst  enemy. 

It  is  as  a  writer  of  comedies  that  Sheridan  claims  admission  into 
this  work;  and  here  his  position  is  impregnable.  Of  the  four  comic 
dramatists  of  the  Restoration, —  Congreve,  Vanbrugh,  Wycherley,  and 
Farquhar, —  only  one,  Congreve,  was  Sheridan's  superior  as  a  wit;  and 
Sheridan  is  the  superior  of  every  one  of  the  four  as  a  playwright,  as 
an  artist  in  stage  effect,  as  a  master  of  the  medium  in  which  they 
all  of  them  worked.  His  only  later  rival  is  his  fellow-Irishman, 
Oliver  Goldsmith :  but  of  Goldsmith's  two  comedies,  one,  the  ^  Good- 
Natured  Man,*  has  always  been  a  failure,  when  first  acted  and  when- 
ever a  revival  has  been  attempted ;  and  the  other,  *  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,*  delightful  as  it  is,  is  what  its  hostile  critics  called  it  when 
it  was  first  seen,  a  farce, —  it  has  the  arbitrary  plot  of  a  farce,  though 
its  manner  is  the  manner  of  comedy.  Neither  in  the  library  nor  in 
the  theatre  does  ^  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  *  withstand  the  comparison 
with  the  ^  School  for  Scandal  * ;  and  Sheridan  has  still  to  his  credit 
the  ^  Rivals  *  and  the  *■  Critic.  *  (It  is  true  that  Goldsmith  has  to  his 
credit  the  <  Vicar  of  Wakefield*  and  his  poems  and  his  essays;  but  it 
is  of  his  plays  that  a  comparison  is  here  made.) 

Sheridan  is  not  of  course  to  be  likened  to  Moliere:  the  Frenchman 
had  a  depth  and  a  power  to  which  the  Irishman  could  not  pretend. 
But  a  comparison  With  Beaumarchais  is  fair  enough,  and  it  can  be 
drawn  only  in  favor  of  Sheridan*;  for  brilliant  as  the  <  Marriage  of 
Figaro  *  is,  it  lacks  the  solid  structure  and  the  broad  outlook  of  the 
^School  for  Scandal.*  Both  the  French  wit  and  the  Irish  are  masters 
of  fence,  and  the  dialogue  of  these  comedies  still  scintillates  as  steel 
crosses  steel.  Neither  of  them  put  much  heart  into  his  plays ;  and 
perhaps  the  <  School  for  Scandal  *  is  even  more  artificial  than  the 
^Marriage  of  Figaro,*  —  but  it  is  wholly  free  from  the  declamatory 
shrillness  which  to-day  mars  the  masterpiece  of  Beaumarchais. 

It  is  curious  that  the  British  novelists  have  often  taken  up  their 
task  in  the  maturity  of  middle  age,  and  that  the  British  dramatists 
have  often  been  young  fellows  just  coming  into  man's  estate.  One 
might  say  that  Farquhar  and  Vanbrugh,  Congreve  and  Sheridan,  all 
composed  their  comedies  when  they  were  only  recently  out  of  their 
'teens.  Lessing  has  told  us  that  the  young  man  just  entering  on  the 
world  cannot  possibly  know  it.  He  may  be  ingenious,  he  may  be 
clever,  he  may  be  brilliant, —  but  he  is  likely  to  lack  depth  and 
breadth.  Here  is  the  weak  spot  in  Sheridan's  work.  Dash  he  had, 
and  ardor,  and  dexterity,  and  wit;  but  when  his  work  is  compared 
with  the  solid  and  more  human  plays  of  Moliere,  for  example,  its 
relative  superficiality  is   apparent.     And  yet  superficiality  is  a  harsh 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  1 332 1 

word,  and  perhaps  misleading.  What  is  not  to  be  found  in  Sheridan's 
comedies  is  essential  richness  of  inspiration.  Liveliness  there  is,  and 
dramaturgic  skill,  and  comic  invention,  and  animal  spirits,  and  hearty- 
enjoyment:  these  are  gifts  to  be  prized.  To  seek  for  more  in  the 
*  Rivals  *  and  the  *  School  for  Scandal  *  is  to  be  disappointed. 


MRS.  MALAPROFS  VIEWS 
From  the  <  Rivals  > 

The  scene  is  Mrs.  Malaprop's  lodgings  at  Bath.    Present,  Lydia  Languish. 
Enter  Mrs.  Malaprop  and  Sir  Anthony  Absolute. 

MRS.  Malaprop  —  There,  Sir  Anthony,  there  sits  the  deliber- 
ate simpleton  who  wants  to  disgrace  her  family,  and  lavish 
herself  on  a  fellow  not  worth  a  shilling. 

Lydia — Madam,  I  thought  you  once  — 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  You  thought,  miss!  I  don't  know  any  busi- 
ness you  have  to  think  at  all:  thought  does  not  become  a  young 
woman.  But  the  point  we  would  request  of  )-ou  is,  that  you  will 
promise  to  forget  this  fellow;  to  illiterate  him,  I  say,  quite  from 
your  memory. 

Lydia  —  Ah,  madam!  our  memories  are  independent  of  our 
wills.      It  is  not   so  easy   to  forget. 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  But  I  say  it  is,  miss;  there  is  nothing  on 
earth  so  eas,y  as  to  forget,  if  a  person  chooses  to  set  about  it.  I'm 
sure  I  have  as  much  forgot  your  poor  dear  uncle  as  if  he  had 
never  existed  —  and  I  thought  it  my  duty  so  to  do;  and  let  me 
tell  you,  Lydia,  these  violent  memories  don't  become  a  young 
woman. 

Sir  Anthony  —  Why,  sure  she  won't  pretend  to  remember  what 
she's  ordered  not!     Ay,  this  comes  of  her  reading! 

Lydia  —  What  crime,  madam,  have  I  committed  to  be  treated 
thus  ? 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  Now  don't  attempt  to  extirpate  yourself  from 
the  matter;  you  know  I  have  proof  controvertible  of  it.  But  tell 
me,  will  you  promise  to  do  as  you're  bid  ?  Will  you  take  a  hus> 
band  of  your  friends'  choosing  ? 


jjjj,  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN 

Lydia  —  Madam,  I  must  tell  you  plainly  that  had  I  no  pref- 
erence for  any  one  else,  the  choice  you  have  made  would  be  my 
aversion, 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  What  business  have  you,  miss,  with  prefer- 
ence and  aversion  ?  They  don't  become  a  young  woman ;  and  you 
ought  to  know  that  as  both  always  wear  off,  'tis  safest  in  matri- 
mony to  begin  with  a  little  aversion.  I  am  sure  I  hated  your 
poor  dear  uncle  before  marriage  as  if  he'd  been  a  blackamoor; 
and  yet,  miss,  you  are  sensible  what  a  wife  I  made  ?  and  when 
it  pleased  Heaven  to  release  me  from  him,  'tis  unknown  what 
tears  I  shed!  But  suppose  we  were  going  to  give  you  another 
choice,  will  you  promise  us  to  give  up  this  Beverley  ? 

Lydia  —  Could  I  belie  my  thoughts  so  far  as  to  give  that 
promise,  my  actions  would  certainly  as  far  belie  my  words. 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  Take  yourself  to  your  room.  You  are  fit 
company  for  nothing  but  your  own  ill-humors. 

Lydia  —  Willingly,  ma'am  —  I  cannot  change  for  the  worse. 

l^Exit. 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  There's  a  little  intricate  hussy  for  you! 

Sir  Anthony — It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  ma'am:  all  this 
is  the  natural  consequence  of  teaching  girls  to  read.  Had  I  a 
thousand  daughters,  by  heaven  I'd  as  soon  have  them  taught 
the  black  art  as  their  alphabet! 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  Nay,  nay.  Sir  Anthony:  you  are  an  absolute 
misanthropy. 

Sir  Anthony — In  my  way  hither,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  observed 
your  niece's  maid  coming  forth  from  a  circulating  library!  She 
had  a  book  in  each  hand;  they  were  half -bound  volumes  with 
marble  covers!  From  that  moment  I  guessed  how  full  of  duty 
I  should  see  her  mistress! 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  Those  are  vile  places  indeed! 

Sir  Anthony  —  Madam,  a  circulating  library  in  a  town  is  as  an 
evergreen  tree  of  diabolical  knowledge, —  it  blossoms  through  the 
year!  And  depend  on  it,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  that  they  who  are  so 
fond  of  handling  the  leaves  will  long  for  the  fruit  at  last. 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  Fy,  fy.  Sir  Anthony!  you  surely  speak  la- 
conically. 

Sir  Anthony  —  Why,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  in  moderation  now,  what 
would  you  have  a  woman  know  ? 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  Observe  me.  Sir  Anthony.  I  would  by  no 
means  wish  a  daughter  of  mine  to  be  a  progeny  of  learning;   I 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN  13323 

don't  think  so  much  learning  becomes  a  young  woman:  for  in- 
stance, I  would  never  let  her  meddle  with  Greek,  or  Hebrew,  or 
algebra,  or  simony,  or  fluxions,  or  paradoxes,  or  such  inflammatory 
branches  of  learning;  neither  would  it  be  necessary  for  her  to 
handle  any  of  your  mathematical,  astronomical,  diabolical  instru- 
ments. But,  Sir  Anthony,  I  would  send  her  at  nine  years  old  to 
a  boarding-school,  in  order  to  learn  a  little  ingenuity  and  artifice. 
Then,  sir,  she  should  have  a  supercilious  knowledge  in  accounts; 
and  as  she  grew  up  I  would  have  her  instructed  in  geometry, 
that  she  might  know  something  of  the  contagious  countries:  but 
above  all,  Sir  Anthony,  she  should  be  mistress  of  orthodoxy,  that 
she  might  not  misspell  and  mispronounce  words  so  shamefully  as 
girls  usually  do;  and  likewise  that  she  might  reprehend  the  true 
meaning  of  what  she  is  saying.  This,  Sir  Anthony,  is  what  I 
would  have  a  woman  know;  and  I  don't  think  there  is  a  super- 
stitious article  in  it. 

Sir  Anthony  —  Well,  well,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  will  dispute  the 
point  no  further  with  you;  though  I  must  confess  that  you  are 
a  truly  moderate  and  polite  arguer,  for  almost  every  third  word 
you  say  is  on  my  side  of  the  question.  But,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  to 
the  more  important  point  in  debate:  you  say  you  have  no  objec- 
tion to  my  proposal  ? 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  None,  I  assure  you.  I  am  under  no  positive 
engagement  with  Mr.  Acres;  and  as  Lydia  is  so  obstinate  against 
him,  perhaps  your  son  may  have  better  success. 

Sir  Anthony  —  Well,  madam,  I  will  write  for  the  boy  directly. 
He  knows  not  a  syllable  of  this  yet,  though  I  have  for  some 
time  had  the  proposal  in  my  head.  He  is  at  present  with  his 
regiment. 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  We  have  never  seen  your  son.  Sir  Anthony; 
but  I  hope  no  objection  on  his  side. 

Sir  Anthony  —  Objection!  let  him  object  if  he  dare!  No,  no, 
Mrs.  Malaprop,  Jack  knows  that  the  least  demur  piits  me  in  a 
frenzy  directly.  My  process  was  always  very  simple:  in  their 
younger  days,  'twas  "Jack,  do  this**;  if  he  demurred  I  knocked 
him  down,  and  if  he  grumbled  at  that  I  always  sent  him  out  of 
the  room. 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  Ay,  and  the  properest  way,  o'  my  con- 
science! Nothing  is  so  conciliating  to  young  people  as  sever- 
ity.    Well,  Sir  Anthony,  I  shall  give  Mr.  Acres  his  discharge,  and 


13324  RICHARD   BRTN.SLEY    SHERIDAN 

prepare  Lydia  to  receive  your  son's  invocations;  and  I  hope  you 
will  represent  her  to  the  captain  as  an  object  not  altogether 
illegible. 

Sir  Anthony — Madam,  T  will  handle  the  subject  prudently. 
Well,   I   must   leave  you;    and  let  me  beg  you,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  to 

enforce  this  matter  roundly  to  the  girl.      Take   my  advice keep 

a  tight  hand:  if  she  rejects  this  proposal,  clap  her  under  lock  and 
key;  and  if  you  were  just  to  let  the  servants  forget  to  bring  her 
dinner  for  three  or  four  days,  you  can't  conceive  how  she'd  come 
about.  lExit. 

Mrs.  Malaprop  — ^q\\  at  any  rate  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  her 
from  under  my  intuition.  She  has  somehow  discovered  my  par- 
tiality for  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger:  sure,  Lucy  can't  have  betrayed 
me!  No,  the  girl  is  such  a  simpleton,  I  should  have  made  her 
confess  it.  {^Calls.'\  Lucy!  Lucy!  —  Had  she  been  one  of  your 
artificial  ones,  I  should  never  have  trusted  her. 


SIR   LUCIUS   DICTATES  A  CARTEL 
From  the  <  Rivals  > 

The  scene  is   Bob   Acres's  lodgings  at  Bath.     Acres  is  discovered  as  his 
■  servant  shows  in  Sir  Lucius. 

SIR  Lucius— Mr.  Acres,  I  am  delighted  to  embrace  you. 
Acres — My  dear  Sir  Lucius,  I  kiss  your  hands. 
Sir  Lucius — Pray,    my   friend,    what    has    brought    you    so 
suddenly   to   Bath  ? 

Acres — Faith!  I  have  followed  Cupid's  Jack-a-lantern,  and 
find  myself  in  a  quagmire  at  last.  In  short,  I  have  been  very 
ill  used.  Sir  Lucius.  I  don't  choose  to  mention  names,  but  look 
on  me  as  on  a  very  ill-used  gentleman. 

Str  Lucius — Pray,   what  is  the  case?     I  ask  no  names. 

Acres  —  Mark  me,  Sir  Lucius,  I  fall  as  deep  as  need  be  in 
love  with  a  young  lady:  her  friends  take  my  part  —  I  follow  her 
to  Bath  —  send  word  of  my  arrival ; .  and  receive  answer  that  the 
lady  is  to  be  otherwise  disposed  of.  This,  Sir  Lucius,  I  call 
being  ill  used. 

Str  Lucius  —  Very  ill,  upon  my  conscience.  Pray,  can  you 
divine   the   cause   of  it  ? 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN  ^33^  5 

Acres — Why,  there's  the  matter:  she  has  another  lover,  one 
Beverley,  who,  I  am  told,  is  now  in  Bath.  Odds  slanders  and 
lies!    he  must  be  at  the   bottom   of  it. 

Sir  Lucius  —  A  rival  in  the  case,  is  there?  and  you  think  he 
has  supplanted  you  unfairly  ? 

Acres  —  Unfairly!  to  be  sure  he  has.  He  never  could  have 
done  it  fairly. 

Sir  Lucius  —  Then  sure  you  know  what  is  to  be  done! 

Acres  —  Not  I,  upon  my  soul. 

Sir  Lucius  —  We  wear  no  swords  here,  but  you  understand  me. 

Acres — What!   fight  him? 

Sir  Lucius  —  Ay,   to  be  sure:    what  can  I  mean  else? 

Acres  —  But  he  has  given  me  no  provocation. 

Sir  Lucius — Now,  I  think  he  has  given  you  the  greatest  prov- 
ocation in  the  world.  Can  a  man  commit  a  more  heinous  offense 
against  another  than  to  fall  in  love  with  the  same  woman  ?  Oh, 
by  my  soul!   it  is  the  most  unpardonable  breach  of  friendship. 

Acres  —  Breach  of  friendship!  ay,  ay;  but  I  have  no  acquaint- 
ance with  this  man.     I  never  saw  him  in  my  life. 

Sir  Luci2is — That's  no  argument  at  all:  he  has  the  less  right 
then  to  take  such  a  liberty. 

Acres  —  Gad,  that's  true.  I  grow  full  of  anger.  Sir  Lucius! 
I  fire  apace!  Odds  hilts  and  blades!  I  find  a  man  may  have  a 
deal  of  valor  in  him  and  not  know  it!  But  couldn't  I  contrive 
to  have  a  little  right  on  my  side  ? 

Sir  Lucius  —  What  the  devil  signifies  right,  when  your  honor 
is  concerned  ?  Do  you  think  Achilles,  or  my  little  Alexander  the 
Great,  ever  inquired  where  the  right  lay  ?  No,  by  my  soul :  they 
drew  their  broadswords,  and  left  the  lazy  sons  of  peace  to  settle 
the  justice  of  it. 

Acres  —  Your  words  are  a  grenadier's  march  to  my  heart:  I 
believe  courage  must  be  catching!  I  certainly  do  feel  a  kind  of 
valor  rising,  as  it  were, — a  kind  of  courage,  as  I  may  say.  Odds 
flints,  pans,  and  triggers!     I'll  challenge  him  directly. 

Sir  Lucius — Ah,  my  little  friend,  if  I  had  Blunderbuss  Hall 
here,  I  could  show  you  a  range  of  ancestry  in  the  O'Trigger 
line  that  would  furnish  the  new  room,  every  one  of  whom  had 
killed  his  man!  For  though  the  mansion-house  and  dirty  acres 
have  slipped  through  my  fingers,  I  thank  heaven  our  honor  and 
the  family  pictures  are  as  fresh  as  ever. 


13326  RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

Acres  —  O  Sir  Lucius!  I  have  had  ancestors  too!  every  man 
of  'em  colonel  or  captain  in  the  militia!  Odds  balls  and  barrels! 
say  no  more — I'm  braced  for  it.  The  thunder  of  your  words 
has  soured  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  my  breast.  Zounds! 
as  the  man  in  the  play  says,  /  could  do  such  deeds. 

Sir  Lucius — Come,  come,  there  must  be  no  passion  at  all  in 
the   case:    these  things  should  always  be  done  civilly. 

Acres — I  must  be  in  a  passion,  Sir  Lucius, —  I  must  be  in  a 
rage.  Dear  Sir  Lucius,  let  me  be  in  a  rage,  if  you  love  me. 
Come,  here's  pen  and  paper.  [Sits  down  to  write.]  I  would  the 
ink  were  red !  Indite,  I  say  indite !  How  shall  I  begin  ?  Odds 
bullets  and  blades!     I'll  write  a  good  bold  hand,  however. 

Sir  Lucius — Pray  compose  yourself. 

Acres  —  Come,  now,  shall  I  begin  with  an  oath?  Do,  Sir 
Lucius,  let  me  begin   with   a  ^*  damme.  ^^ 

Sir  Lucius — Pho!  pho!  do  the  thing  decently,  and  like  a 
Christian.     Begin  now.     **  Sir — '^ 

Acres  —  That's  too  civil  by  half. 

Sir  Lucius  —  <*  To  prevent  the  confusion  that  might  arise  ^ — ** 

Acres  —  Well  — 

Sir  L^ucius — "From  our  both  addressing  the  same  lady — ** 

Acres — Ay,   there's  the  reason — "same  lady^*:   well  — 

Sir  Lucius — "I  shall  expect  the  honor  of  your  company  —  ** 

Acres  —  Zounds!    I'm  not  asking  him  to  dinner. 

Sir  Lucius — Pray  be  easy. 

Acres  —  Well  then,  "honor  of  your  company  —  ^^ 

Sir  Lucius  —  "To  settle  our  pretensions — '^ 

Acres — Well  — 

Sir  Lucius — Let  me  see:  ay,  King's-Mead  Fields  will  do  —  ^^{n 
King's-Mead  Fields.^* 

Acres — So,  that's  done.  Well,  I'll  fold  it  up  presently;  my 
own  crest  —  a  hand   and  a  dagger  —  shall  be   the   seal. 

Sir  Lucius — You  see  how  this  little  explanation  will  put  a 
stop  at  once  to  all  confusion  or  misunderstanding  that  might 
arise  between  you. 

Acres  —  Ay,  we  fight  to  prevent  any  misunderstanding. 

Sir  Lucius — Now,  I'll  leave  you  to  fix  your  own  time.  Take 
my  advice,  and  you'll  decide  it  this  evening  if  you  can;  then  let 
the  worst  come  of  it,  'twill  be  off  your  mind  to-morrow. 

Acres  —  Very  true. 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  13327 

Sir  Lucius  —  So  I  shall  see  nothing  more  of  you,  imless  it 
be  by  letter,  till  the  evening.  I  would  do  myself  the  honor  to 
carry  your  message;  but  to  tell  you  a  secret,  I  believe  I  shall 
have  just  such  another  affair  on  my  own  hands.  There  is  a  gay 
captain  here,  who  put  a  jest  on  me  lately  at  the  expense  of  my 
country,  and  I  only  want  to  fall  in  with  the  gentleman  to  call 
him  out. 

Acres — By  my  valor,  I  should  like  to  see  you  fight  first! 
Odds  life!  I  should  like  to  see  you  kill  him,  if  it  was  only  to 
get  a  little  lesson. 

Sir  Lucius  —  I  shall  be  very  proud  of  instructing  you.  Well, 
for  the  present  —  but  remember  now,  when  you  meet  your  antag- 
onist, do  everything  in  a  mild  and  agreeable  manner.  Let  your 
courage  be  as  keen,  but  at  the  same  time  as  polished,  as  your 
sword.  {Exeunt  severally. 


THE  DUEL 

From  the  <  Rivals  > 

Scene:  King's-Mead  Fields,  Bath.    Enter  Sir  Lucius  O 'Trigger  and  Acres 
7vith  pistols. 

ACRES — By  my  valor!  then,  Sir  Lucius,  forty  yards  is  a  good 
distance.  Odds  levels  and  aims!  I  say  it  is  a  good  dis- 
tance. 

Sir  Lucius  —  Is  it  for  muskets  or  small  field-pieces  ?  Upon 
my  conscience,  Mr.  Acres,  you  must  leave  those  things  to  me. 
Stay  now  —  I'll  show  you.  {Mcastircs  paces  alojig  the  stage. ^ 
There  now,  that  is  a  very  pretty  distance  —  a  pretty  gentleman's 
distance. 

Acres — Zounds!  we  might  as  well  fight  in  a  sentry-box!  1 
tell  you,  Sir  Lucius,  the  farther  he  is  off,  the  cooler  I  shall  take 
my  aim. 

Sir  Lucius  —  Faith!  then  I  suppose  you  would  aim  at  him 
best  of  all  if  he   was  out  of  sight! 

Acres — No,  Sir  Lucius;  but  I  should  think  forty  or  eight- 
and-thirty  yards  — 

Sir  Lucius — Pho!  pho!  nonsense!  three  or  four  feet  between 
the  mouths  of  your  pistols  is  as  good  as  a  mile. 

Acres  —  Odds  bullets,  no!  —  by  my  valor!  there  is  no  merit 
in   killing   him    so   near:    do,   my  dear    Sir    Lucius,  let    me    bring 


13328 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 


him  down  at  a  long  shot ;  —  a  long  shot,   Sir  Lucius,  if  you  love 
me! 

Sir  Luetics — Well,  the  gentleman's  friend  and  I  must  settle 
that.  But  tell  me  now,  Mr.  Acres,  in  case  of  an  accident,  is 
there   any  little   will  or  commission   I   could  execute  for  you  ? 

Acres — I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Sir  Lucius,  but  I  don't 
understand  — 

Sir  Lucius  —  Why,  you  may  think  there's  no  being  shot  at 
without  a  little  risk;  and  if  an  unlucky  bullet  should  carry  a 
quietus  with  it  —  I  say  it  will  be  no  time  then  to  be  bothering 
you  about  family  matters. 

Acres  —  A  quietus! 
'  Sir  Lucius — For  instance,  now  —  if  that  should  be  the  case  — 
would  you  choose  to  be  pickled   and   sent  home  ?    or  would  it  be 
the   same   to  you    to   lie   here  in   the  Abbey?      I'm   told   there  is 
very  snug  lying  in  the  Abbey. 

Acres  —  Pickled!  Snug  lying  in  the  Abbey!  Odds  tremors! 
Sir  Lucius,  don't  talk   so! 

Sir  Lucius  —  I  suppose,  Mr.  Acres,  you  never  were  engaged 
in   an  affair  of  this  kind  before  ? 

Acres — No,  Sir  Lucius,  never  before. 

Sir  Lucius  —  Ah!  that's  a  pity!  —  there's  nothing  like  being 
used  to  a  thing.  Pray  now,  how  would  you  receive  the  gentle- 
man's shot  ? 

Acres  —  Odds  files!  I've  practiced  that  —  there,  Sir  Lucius  — 
there.  [^Puts  himself  in  an  attitude. '\  A  side-front,  hey?  Odd! 
I'll  make  myself  small  enough:  I'll  stand  edgeways. 

Sir  Lucius  —  Now  you're  quite  out;  for  if  you  stand  so  when 
I  take  my  aim —  ^Leveling  at  him. 

Acres — Zounds!    Sir  Lucius  —  are  you  sure  it  is  not  cocked? 

Sir  Lucius  —  Never  fear. 

Acres  —  But  —  but  —  you  don't  know  —  it  may  go  off  of  its 
own  head! 

Sir  Lucius  —  Pho!  be  easy.  Well,  now,  if  I  hit  you  in  the 
body,  my  bullet  has  a  double  chance:  for  if  it  misses  a  vital 
part  of  your  right  side,  'twill  be  very  hard  if  it  don't  succeed  on 
the  left! 

Acres  —  A  vital  part! 

Sir  Lucius — But  there  —  fix  yourself  so:  ^placing  him"]  let  him 
see  the  broad-side  of  your  full  front  —  there  —  now  a  ball  or  two 
may  pass  clean  through  your  body,  and  never  do  any  harm  at  all. 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN  13329 

Acres  —  Clean  through  me!  —  a  ball  or  two  clean  through  me! 

Sir  Lucius  —  Ay,  may  they;  and  it  is  much  the  genteelest  atti- 
tude into  the  bargain. 

Acres  —  Look'ee!  Sir  Lucius  —  I'd  just  as  lieve  be  shot  in  an 
awkward  posture  as  a  genteel  one;  so,  by  my  valor!  I  will  stand 
edgeways. 

Sir  Lucius  [/ooking-  at  /lis  zvaU/i]  —  Sure  they  don't  mean  to 
disappoint  us  —  hah!  —  no,   faith,  I  think  I  see  them  coming. 

Acres  —  Hey !  —  what !  —  coming ! 

Sir  Lucius  —  Ay.  Who  are  those  yonder  getting  over  the 
stile  ? 

Acres  —  There  are  two  of  them  indeed!  Well  —  let  them  come 
—  hey.   Sir  Lucius! — we  —  we  —  we --we  —  won't  run. 

Sir  Lucius  —  Run! 

Acres  —  No  —  I  say  —  we  won't  run, , by  my  valor! 

Sir  Lucius — What  the  devil's  the  matter  with  you? 

Acres — Nothing  —  nothing  —  my  dear  friend  —  my  dear  Sir 
Lucius  —  but — I — I  —  I  don't  feel  quite  so  bold,  somehow,  as  I 
did. 

Sir  Lucius  —  O  fie!     Consider  your  honor. 

Acres — Ay  —  true  —  my  honor.  Do,  Sir  Lucius,  edge  in  a 
word  or  two  every  now  and  then   about  my  honor. 

Sir  Lucius  —  Well,  here  they're  coming.  '     \Looking. 

Acres  —  Sir  Lucius  —  if  I  wa'n't  with  you,  I  should  almost 
think  I  was  afraid.  If  my  valor  should  leave  me!  Valor  will 
come  and   go. 

Sir  Lucius  —  Then  pray  keep  it  fast,  while  you  have  it. 

Acres — Sir  Lucius — I  doubt  it  is  going  —  yes  —  my  valor  is 
certainly  going!  It  is  sneaking  off!  I  feel  it  oozing  out  as  it 
were  at  the  palms  of  my  hands! 

Sir  Lucius  —  Your  honor  —  your  honor!     Here  they  are. 

Acres — O  mercy!  —  now  —  that  I  was  safe  at  Clod-Hall!  or 
could  be  shot  before  I  was  aware! 

Enter  Faulkland  and  Captain  Absolute 

Sir  Lucius — Gentlemen,  your  most  obedient.  Hah!  —  what. 
Captain  Absolute!  So  —  I  suppose,  sir,  you  are  come  here  just 
like  myself:  to  do  a  kind  office,  first  for  your  friend,  then  to  pro- 
ceed to  business  on  your  own  account. 

Acres  —  What  —  Jack!  —  my  dear  Jack!  —  my  dear  friend! 


jo^^o  RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

Absolute — Hark'ee,  Bob,  Beverley's  at  hand. 

Sir  Lucius  —  "Well,  Mr.  Acres — I  don't  blame  your  saluting 
the  gentleman  civilly.  [To  Faulkland.'\  So,  Mr.  Beverley,  if 
you'll  choose  your  weapons,  the  captain  and  I  will  measure  the 
ground. 

Faulkland — My  weapons,  sir! 

Acres  —  Odds  life!  Sir  Lucius,  I'm  not  going  to  fight  Mr, 
Faulkland:   these  are  my  particular  friends. 

Sir  Lucius  —  What,  sir,  did  you  not  come  here  to  fight  Mr. 
Acres  ? 

Faulkland — Not  I,  upon  my  word,  sir. 

Sir  Lucius — Well,  now,  that's  mighty  provoking!  But  I  hope, 
Mr.  Faulkland,  as  there  are  three  of  us  come  on  purpose  for  the 
game,  you  won't  be  so  cantankerous  as  to  spoil  the  party  by 
sitting  out. 

Absolute  —  Oh  pray,  Faulkland,  fight  to  oblige  Sir  Lucius. 

Faulkland — Nay,  if  Mr.  Acres  is  so  bent  on  the  matter  — 

Acres  —  No,  no,  Mr.  Faulkland:  I'll  bear  my  disappointment 
like  a  Christian. —  Look'ee,  Sir  Lucius,  there's  no  occasion  at  all 
for  me  to  fight;  and  if  it  is  the  same  to  you,  I'd  as  lieve  let  it 
alone. 

Sir  Lucius  —  Observe  me,  Mr.  Acres — I  must  not  be  trifled 
with.  You  have  certainly  challenged  somebody,  and  you  came 
here  to  fight  him.  Now,  if  that  gentleman  is  willing  to  repre- 
sent him — I  can't  see,  for  my  soul,  why  it  isn't  just  the  same 
thing. 

Acres  —  Why,  no,  Sir  Lucius:  I  tell  you  'tis  one  Beverley  I've 
challenged  —  a  fellow,  you  see,  that  dare  not  show  his  face!  If 
he  were  here,  I'd  make  him  give  up  his  pretensions  directly! 

Absolute — Hold,  Bob  —  let  me  set  you  right:  there  is  no  such 
man  as  Beverley  in  the  case.  The  person  who  assumed  that 
name  is  before  you;  and  as  his  pretensions  are  the  same  in  both 
characters,  he  is  ready  to  support  them  in  whatever  way  you 
please. 

Sir  Lucius  —  Well,  this  is  lucky.  Now  you  have  an  oppor. 
tunity  — 

Acres  —  What,  quarrel  with  my  dear  friend  Jack  Absolute"; 
Not  if  he  wfere  fifty  Beverleys!  Zounds,  Sir  Lucius,  you  would 
not  have  me  so  unnatural! 

Sir  Lucius  —  Upon  my  conscience,  Mr.  Acres,  your  valor  has 
oozed  away  with  a  vengeance! 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN  I333I 

Acres — Not  in  the  least!  Odds  backs  and  abettors!  I'll  be 
your  second  with  all  my  heart;  and  if  you  should  get  a- quietus, 
you  may  command  me  entirely.  I'll  get  you  snug  lying  in  the 
Abbey  here;  or  pickle  you,  and  send  you  over  to  Blunderbuss 
Hall,  or  anything  of  the  kind,  with  the  greatest  pleasure. 

Sir  Lucius — Pho!    pho!    you  are  little  better  than  a  coward. 

Acres — Mind,  gentlemen,  he  calls  me  a  coward;  coward  was 
the  word,  by  my  valor! 

Sir  Lucius  —  Well,  sir  ? 

Acres — Look'ee,  Sir  Lucius,  'tisn't  that  I  mind  the  word  cow- 
ard—  coward  may  be  said  in  joke.  But  if  you  had  called  me  a 
poltroon,  odds  daggers  and  balls!  — 

Sir  Lucius  —  Well,  sir? 

Acres — I  should  have  thought  you  a  very  ill-bred  man. 

Sir  Lucius — Pho!    you  are  beneath  my  notice. 

Absolute  —  Nay,  Sir  Lucius,  you  can't  have  a  better  second 
than  my  friend  Acres.  He  is  a  most  determined  dog  —  called  in 
the  country.  Fighting  Bob.  He  generally  kills  a  man  a  week  — 
don't  you,  Bob  ? 

Acres — Ay  —  at  home! 

Sir  Lucius  —  Well,  then,  captain,  'tis  we  must  begin;  so  come 
out,  my  little  counselor,  {draws  his  swordA^  and  ask  the  gentle- 
man whether  he  will  resign  the  lady,  without  forcing  you  to 
proceed  against  him  ? 

Absolute  —  Come  on  then,  sir:  \dra%vs'\  since  you  won't  let  it 
be  an  amicable  suit,  here's  my  reply. 

Enter  Sir  Anthony   Absolute,    David,   Mrs.   Malaprop,   Lydia,  and  Julia  . 

David — Knock  'em  all  down,  sweet  Sir  Anthony:  knock  down 
my  master  in  particular,  and  bind  his  hands  over  to  their  good 
behavior! 

Sir  Anthony  —  Put  up,  Jack,  put  up,  or  I  shall  be  in  a  frenzy: 
how  came  you  in  a  duel,   sir  ? 

Absolute — Faith,  sir,  that  gentleman  can  tell  you  better  than 
I:    'twas  he  called  on  me, —  and  you  know,  sir,  I   serve  his  Maj- . 
esty. 

Sir  AntJiony — Here's  a  pretty  fellow:  I  catch  him  going  to  cut 
a  man's  throat,  and  he  tells  me  he  serves  his  Majesty!  Zounds, 
sirrah !  then  how  durst  you  draw  the  King's  sword  against  one  of 
his  subjects  ? 


13332  '     RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

Absolute  —  Sir,  I  tell  you  that  gentleman  called  me  out,  with- 
out explaining  his  reasons. 

Sir  Anthony  —  Gad,  sir!  how  came  you  to  call  my  son  out, 
without  explaining  your  reasons  ? 

Sir  Lucius  —  Your  son,  sir,  insulted  me  in  a  manner  which 
my  honor  could  not  brook. 

Sir  Anthony  —  Zounds,  Jack!  how  durst  you  insult  the  gentle- 
man in  a  manner  which  his  honor  could  not  brook  ? 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  Come,  come,  let's  have  no  honor  before 
ladies. —  Captain  Absolute,  come  here :  How  could  you  intimidate 
us  so  ?     Here's  Lydia  has  been  terrified  to  death  for  you. 

Absolute — For  fear  I  should  be  killed,  or  escape,  ma'am? 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  Nay,  no  delusions  to  the  past :  Lydia  is  con- 
vinced.—  Speak,   child. 

Sir  Lucius — With  your  leave,  ma'am,  I  must  put  in  a  word 
here:  I  believe  I  could  interpret  the  young  lady's  silence.  Now 
mark  — 

Lydia  —  What  is  it  you  mean,  sir? 

Sir  Lucius  —  Come,  come,  Delia,  we  must  be  serious  now : 
this  is  no  time   for  trifling. 

Lydia  —  'Tis  true,  sir;  and  your  reproof  bids  me  offer  this 
gentleman  my  hand,   and  solicit  the   return  of  his  affections. 

Absolute  —  O  my  little  angel,  say  you  so!  Sir  Lucius,  I  per- 
ceive there  must  be  some  mistake  here  with  regard  to  the  affront 
which  you  affirm  I  have  given  you.  I  can  only  say  that  it  could 
not  have  been  intentional.  And  as  you  must  be  convinced  that 
I  should  not  fear  to  support  a  real  injury,  you  shall  now  see  that 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  atone  for  an  inadvertency:  I  ask  your  par- 
don. But  for  this  lady,  while  honored  with  her  approbation,  I 
will   support   my  claim   against   any  man  whatever. 

Sir  Anthony  —  Well  said.  Jack,  and  I'll  stand  by  you,  my  boy. 

Acres  —  Mind,  I  give  up  all  my  claim  —  I  make  no  pretensions 
to  anything  in  the  world;  and  if  I  can't  get  a  wife  without 
fighting  for  her, —  by  my  valor!    I'll  live  a  bachelor. 

Sir  Lucius  —  Captain,  give  me  your  hand:  an  affront  hand- 
somely acknowledged  becomes  an  obligation;  and  as  for  the  lady, 
if  she  chooses  to  deny  her  own  handwriting,  here  — 

\^Takes  out  letters. 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  Oh,  he  will  dissolve  my  mystery !  —  Sir 
Lucius,  perhaps  there's  some  mistake  —  perhaps  I  can  illumi- 
nate— 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  ^3333 

Sir  Lucius  —  Pray,  old  gentlewoman,  don't  interfere  where  you 
have  no  business.     Miss  Languish,  are  you  my  Delia  or  not  ? 

Lydia  —  Indeed,  Sir  Lucius,  I  am  not.  {Walks  aside  with 
Captain  Absolut e.'\ 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger  —  ungrateful  as  you 
are,  I  own  the  soft  impeachment  —  pardon  my  blushes;  I  am 
Delia. 

Sir  Lucius  —  You  Delia!  —  pho!  pho!  be  easy. 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  Why,  thou  barbarous  Vandyke!  those  letters 
are  mine.  When  you  are  more  sensible  of  my  benignity,  per- 
haps I  may  be   brought  to  encourage  your  addresses. 

Sir  Lucius  —  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  am  extremely  sensible  of  your 
condescension ;  and  whether  you  or  Lucy  have  put  this  trick  on 
me,  I  am  equally  beholden  to  you.  And  to  show  you  I  am  not 
ungrateful,  Captain  Absolute,  since  you  have  taken  that  lady 
from   me   I'll   give  you  my  Delia  into  the   bargain. 

Absolute — I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  Sir  Lucius;  but  here's 
my  friend  Fighting  Bob  unprovided  for. 

Sir  Lucius — Hah!  little  Valor  —  here,  will  you  make  your  for- 
tune ? 

Acres  —  Odds  wrinkles!  No.  But  give  me  your  hand,  Sir 
Lucius;  forget  and  forgive:  but  if  ever  I  give  you  a  chance  of 
pickling  me  again,  say  Bob  Acres  is  a  dunce,  that's  all. 

Sir  Antliony  —  Come,  Mrs,  Malaprop,  don't  be  cast  down:  you 
are  in  your  bloom  yet. 

Mrs.  Malaprop  —  O  Sir  Anthony,  men  are  all  barbarians. 


THE   SCANDAL   CLASS  MEETS 
From  the  <  School  for  Scandal  > 

Scene:  A  room  in  Lady  SneerweW s  house.     Lady  Sneerwell,  Mrs.  Candour, 
Crabtree,  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite,  and  Joseph  Surface  discovered. 

LADY  Sneerwell  —  Nay,  positively  we  will  hear  it. 
J      Joseph  Surface — Yes,  yes,  the  epigram;   by  all  means. 

Sir  Benjaviin  —  Oh,  plague  on't,  uncle!  'tis  mere  nonsense. 

Crabtree  —  No,  no ;    'fore   Gad,  very  clever  for  an  extempore ! 

Sir  Benjamin  —  But,  ladies,  you  should  be  acquainted  with  the 

circumstance.      You  must  know  that  one  day  last  week,  as  Lady 


13334  RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

Betty  Curricle  was  taking  the  dust  in  Hyde  Park,  in  a  sort  of 
duodecimo  phaeton,  she  desired  me  to  write  some  verses  on  her 
ponies;  upon  which  I  took  out  my  pocket-book,  and  in  one  mo- 
ment produced  the  following:  — 

Sure  never  were  seen  two  such  beautiful  ponies; 
Other  horses  are  clowns,  but  these  macaronies*: 
To  give  them  this  title  I'm  sure  can't  be  wrong, — 
Their  legs  are  so  slim  and  their  tails  are  so  long. 

Crabtree  —  There,  ladies:  done  in  the  smack  of  a  whip,  and  on 
horseback  too. 

Joseph  Surface  —  A  very  Phoebus,  mounted  —  indeed,  Sir  Ben- 
jamin ! 

Sir  Betijamin  —  O  dear,  sir!  trifles  —  trifles. 

Enter  Lady  Teazle  and  Maria 

Mrs.  Candour  —  I  must  have  a  copy. 

Lady  Sneerwell —  Lady  Teazle,  I  hope  we  shall  see  Sir  Peter  ? 

Lady  Teazle — I  believe  he'll  wait  on  your  Ladyship  pres- 
ently. 

Lady  Sneerwell — Maria,  my  love,  you  look  grave.  Come,  you 
shall  sit  down  to  piquet  with  Mr.    Surface.     . 

Maria — I  take  very  little  pleasure  in  cards;  however,  I'll  do 
as  your  Ladyship  pleases. 

Lady  Teazle  [aside]  —  I  am  surprised  Mr.  Surface  should  sit 
down  with  her;  I  thought  he  would  have  embraced  this  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  to  me  before  Sir  Peter  came. 

Mrs.  Candour  —  Now  I'll  die;  but  you  are  so  scandalous,  I'll 
forswear  your  society. 

Lady   Teazle  —  What's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Candour? 

Mrs.  Candour — They'll  not  allow  our  friend  Miss  Vermilion 
to  be  handsome. 

Lady  Sneerwell — Oh,  surely  she  is  a  pretty  woman, 

Crabtree — I  am  very  glad  you  think  so,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Candour — She  has  a  charming  fresh  color. 

Lady   Teazle  —  Yes,  when  it  is  fresh  put  on. 

Mrs.  Candour  —  O  fie!  I'll  swear  her  color  is  natural:  I  have 
seen  it  come  and  go! 

*/.  e.,  resembllBg  the  « Italomaniac »  dandies  of  the  day. 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  13335 

Lady  Teazle — I  dare  swear  you  have,  ma'am:  it  goes  ofiE  at 
night,   and  comes  again  in  the  morning. 

Sir  Benjamin  —  True,  ma'am:  it  not  only  comes  and  goes,  but 
what's  more,  egad,  her  maid  can  fetch  and  carry  it! 

Mrs.  Candour  —  Ha!  ha!  ha!  how  I  hate  to  hear  you  talk  so! 
But  surely,  now,  her  sister  is  —  or  was  —  very  handsome. 

Crabtree  —  Who?  Mrs.  Evergreen?  O  Lord!  she's  six-and-fifty 
if  she's  an  hour! 

Mrs.  Candour — Now  positively  you  wrong  her:  fifty -two  or 
fifty-three  is  the  utmost  —  and  I  don't  think  she  looks  more. 

Sir  Benjamin  —  Ah!  there's  no  judging  by  her  looks,  unless 
one   could   see   her  face. 

Lady  Sneerwell — Well,  well,  if  Mrs.  Evergreen  does  take  some 
pains  to  repair  the  ravages  of  time,  you  must  allow  she  effects  it 
with  great  ingenuity;  and  surely  that's  better  than  the  careless 
manner   in   which   the   widow   Ochre   calks  her  wrinkles. 

Sir  Benjamin — Nay,  now.  Lady  Sneerwell,  you  are  severe 
upon  the  widow.  Come,  come,  'tis  not  that  she  paints  so  ill; 
but  when  she  has  finished  her  face,  she  joins  it  on  so  badly  to 
her  neck,  that  she  looks  like  a  mended  statue,  in  which  the  con- 
noisseur may  see  at  once  that  the  head  is  modern,  though  the 
trunk's  antique. 

Crabtree — Ha!  ha!  ha!     Well  said,  nephew! 

Mrs.  Candour — Ha!  ha!  ha!  Well,  you  make  me  laugh;  but 
I  vow  I  hate  you  for  it.     What  do  you  think  of  Miss  Simper  ? 

Sir  Benjamin — Why,  she  has  very  pretty  teeth. 

Lady  Teazle  —  Yes;  and  on  that  account,  when  she  is  nei- 
ther speaking  nor  laughing  (which  very  seldom  happens),  she 
never  absolutely  shuts  her  mouth,  but  leaves  it  always  ajar,  as  it 
were  —  thus.  \Shoivs  her  teeth. 

Mrs.    Candour — How  can  you  be  so  ill-natured? 

Lady  Teazle  —  Nay,  I  allow  even  that's  better  than  the  pains 
Mrs.  Prim  takes  to  conceal  her  losses  in  front.  She  draws  her 
mouth  till  it  positively  resembles  the  aperture  of  a  poor's-box, 
and  all  her  words  appear  to  slide  out  edgewise,  as  it  were  —  thus: 
"How  do  you  do,  madam?     Yes,  madam."  \Mimies 

Lady  Sneerzvell — Very  well,  Lady  Teazle:  I  see  you  can  be  a 
little  severe. 

Lady  Teazle — In  defense  of  a  friend  it  is  but  justice.  But 
here   comes  Sir   Peter  to   spoil   our  pleasantry. 


13336 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN 


Efiter  Sir  Peter  Teazle 

Sir  Peter  —  Ladies,  your  most  obedient.  —  \Aside.\  Mercy  on 
me,  here  is  the  whole  set!  a  character  dead  at  every  word,  I 
suppose. 

Mrs.  Candour  —  I  am  rejoiced  you  are  come,  Sir  Peter.  They 
have  been  so  censorious;    and  Lady  Teazle  as  bad  as  any  one. 

Sir  Peter  —  That  must  be  very  distressing  to  you,  indeed, 
Mrs.   Candour. 

Mrs.  Candour  —  Oh,  they  will  allow  good  qualities  to  nobody; 
not  even  good-nature  to  our  friend  Mrs.  Pursy. 

Lady  Teazle  —  What,  the  fat  dowager  who  was  at  Mrs.  Quad- 
rille's last  night  ? 

Mrs.  Candour  —  Nay,  her  bulk  is  her  misfortune ;  and  when 
she  takes  so  much  pains  to  get  rid  of  it,  you  ought  not  to  reflect 
on  her. 

Lady  Sneer  well  —  That's  very  true,  indeed. 

Lady  Teazle — Yes,  I  know  she  almost  lives  on  acids  and  small 
whey;  laces  herself  by  pulleys;  and  often,  in  the  hottest  noon  in 
summer,  you  may  see  her  on  a  little  squat  pony,  with  her  hair 
plaited  up  behind  like  a  drummer's,  and  puffing  round  the  Ring 
on  a  full  trot. 

Mrs.  Candour — I  thank  you,  Lady  Teazle,  for  defending  her. 

Sir  Peter  —  Yes,  a  good  defense,  truly. 

Mrs.  Candour  —  Truly,  Lady  Teazle  is  as  censorious  as  Miss 
Sallow. 

Crabtree  —  Yes;  and  she  is  a  curious  being  to  pretend  to  be 
censorious, —  an  awkward  gawky,  without  any  one  good  point 
under  heaven. 

Mrs.  Candour  —  Positively  you  shall  not  be  so  very  severe. 
Miss  Sallow  is  a  near  relation  of  mine  by  marriage:  and  as  for 
her  person,  great  allowance  is  to  be  made;  for  let  me  tell  you,  a 
woman  labors  under  many  disadvantages  who  tries  to  pass  for 
a  girl  of  six-and-thirty. 

Lady  Sneerwell — Though,  surely,  she  is  handsome  still;  and 
for  the  weakness  in  her  eyes,  considering  how  much  she  reads 
by  candle-light,  it  is  not  to  be   wondered  at. 

Mrs.  Candour  —  True;  and  then  as  to  her  manner:  upon  my 
word  I  think  it  is  particularly  graceful,  considering  she  never  had 
the  least  education;  for  you  know  her  mother  was  a  Welsh  milli- 
ner, and  her  father  a  sugar-baker  at  Bristol. 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  13337 

Sir  Benjamin  —  Ah!   you  are  both  of  you  too  good-natured! 

Sir  Peter  [aside]  —  Yes,  damned  good-natured!  This  their  own 
relation !  mercy  on  me ! 

Jlfrs.  Candour  —  For  my  part,  I  own  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  a 
friend  ill  spoken  of. 

Sir  Peter  —  No,  to  be  sure  ! 

Sir  Benjamin  —  Oh!  you  are  of  a  moral  turn.  Mrs.  Candour 
and   I  can  sit   for  an  hour  and  hear  Lady  Stucco  talk  sentiment. 

Lady  Teazle  —  Nay,  I  vow  Lady  Stucco  is  very  well  with,  the 
dessert  after  dinner;  for  she's  just  like  the  French  fruit  one 
cracks  for  mottoes, —  made  up  of  paint  and  proverb. 

Mrs.  Candour  —  Well,  I  will  never  join  in  ridiculing  a  friend; 
and  so  I  constantly  tell  my  cousin  Ogle, —  and  you  all  know  what 
pretensions  she  has  to  be  critical  on  beauty. 

Crabtree — Oh,  to  be  stire!  she  has  herself  the  oddest  counte- 
nance that  ever  was  seen;  'tis  a  collection  of-  features  from  all 
the  different  countries  of  the  globe. 

Sir  Benjamin  —  So  she  has,  indeed — an  Irish  front — 

Crabtree  —  Caledonian  locks  — 

Sir  Benjamin — Dutch  nose  — 

Crabtree — Austrian  lips  — 

Sir  Benjamin  —  Complexion  of  a  Spaniard  — 

Crabtree  —  And  teeth  a  la  Chinoise  — 

Sir  Benjamin  —  In  short,  her  face  resembles  a  table  d'hote  at 
Spa,  where  no  two  guests  are  of  a  nation  — 

Crabtree  —  Or  a  congress  at  the  close  of  a  general  war, 
wherein  all  the  members,  even  to  her  eyes,  appear  to  have  a 
different  interest;  and  her  nose  and  chin  are  the  only  parties 
likely  to  join  issue. 

Mrs.    Candour  —  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Sir  Peter  {aside]  —  Mercy  on  my  life !  —  a  person  they  dine 
with   twice   a  week! 

Mrs.  Candour — Nay,  but  I  vow  you  shall  not  carry  the  laugh 
off  so ;   for  give  me  leave  to  say  that  Mrs.  Ogle  — 

Sir  Peter — Madam,  madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  —  there's  no 
stopping  these  good  gentlemen's  tongues.  But  when  I  tell  you, 
Mrs.  Candour,  that  the  lady  they  are  abusing  is  a  particular 
friend  of  mine,   I  hope  you'll  not  take  her  part. 

Lady  Sneerwell — Ha!  ha!  ha!  well  said.  Sir  Peter!  but  you 
are  a  cruel  creature :  too  phlegmatic  yourself  for  a  jest,  and  too 
peevish  to  allow  wit  in  others. 


13338  RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

Sir  Peter — Ah,  madam,  true  wit  is  more  nearly  allied  to 
good-nature  than  your   Ladyship  is  aware  of. 

Lady  Teazle  —  True,  Sir  Peter:  I  believe  they  are  so  near  akin 
that  they  can  never  be  united. 

Sir  Benjamin  —  Or  rather,  suppose  them  man  and  wife,  because 
one  seldom  sees  them  together. 

Lady  Teazle  —  But  Sir  Peter  is  such  an  enemy  to  scandal,  I 
believe  he  would  have  it  put  down  by  Parliament. 

Sir  Peter — 'Fore  heaven,  madam,  if  they  were  to  consider  the 
sporting  with  reputation  of  as  much  importance  as  poaching  on 
manors,  and  pass  an  act  for  the  preservation  of  fame  as  well  as 
game,  I  believe  many  would  thank  them  for  the  bil^ 

Lady  Sneerwell — O  Lud,  Sir  Peter!  w^ould  you  deprive  us  of 
our  privileges  ? 

Sir  Peter — Ay,  madam;  and  then  no  person  should  be  per- 
mitted to  kill  characters  and  run  down  reputations  but  qualified 
old  maids  and  disappointed  widows. 

Lady  Sneerwell — Go,  you  monster! 

Mrs.  Candour — But  surely,  you  would  not  be  quite  so  severe 
on  those  who  only  report  what  they  hear  ? 

Sir  Peter — Yes,  madam:  I  would  have  law-merchant  for  them 
too;  and  in  all  cases  of  slander  currency,  whenever  the  drawer 
of  the  lie  was  not  to  be  found,  the  injured  parties  should  have  a 
right  to  come  on  any  of  the  indorsers. 

Crabtree  —  Well,  for  my  part,  I  believe  there  never  was  a 
scandalous  tale  without  some  foundation. 

Lady  Sneerzvell — Come,  ladies,  shall  we  sit  down  to  cards  in 
the  next  room  ? 

Enter  Servant,  who  whispers  Sir  Peter 

Sir  Peter — I'll  be  with  them  directly.  \Exit  servant. '\  [Aside.] 
I'll  get  away  unperceived. 

Lady  Sneerwell —  Sir  Peter,  you  are  not  going  to  leave  us  ? 

Sir  Peter  —  Your  Ladyship  must  excuse  me:  Pm  called  away 
by  particular  business.     But  I  leave  my  character  behind  me. 

[Exit. 

Sir  Benjamin  —  Well  —  certainly.  Lady  Teazle,  that  lord  of 
yours  is  a  strange  being:  I  could  tell  you  some  stories  of  him 
would  make  you  laugh  heartily  if  he  were  not  your  husband. 

Lady  Teazle — Oh,  pray  don't  mind  that:  come,  do  let's  hear 
them. 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  l^-^^Q 

Exeunt  all  but  Joseph  Surface  and  Maria 

Joseph  Surface — Maria,  I  see  you  have  no  satisfaction  in  this 
society. 

Maria  —  How  is  it  possible  I  should  ?  If  to  raise  malicious 
smiles  at  the  infirmities  or  misfortunes  of  those  who  have  never 
injured  us  be  the  province  of  wit  or  humor,  Heaven  grant  me  a 
double  portion  of  dullness! 

Joseph  Surface — Yet  they  appear  more  ill-natured  than  they 
are:   they  have  no  malice  at  heart. 

Maria  —  Then  is  their  conduct  still  more  contemptible ;  for 
in  my  opinion,  nothing  could  excuse  the  intemperance  of  their 
tongues  but  a  natural  and  uncontrollable  bitterness  of  mind. 


MATRIMONIAL   FELICITY 

From  the  <  School  for  Scandal  > 

Scene:   A  room  in  Sir  Peter  Teazle's  house.     Enter  Sir  Peter  Teazle. 

SIR  Peter — When  an  old  bachelor  marries  a  young  wife,  what 
is  he  to  expect  ?  'Tis  now  six  months  since  Lady  Teazle 
made  me  the  happiest  of  men  —  and  I  have  been  the  most 
miserable  dog  ever  since.  We  tift  a  little  going  to  church,  and 
fairly  quarreled  before  the  bells  had  done  ringing.  I  was  more 
than  once  nearly  choked  with  gall  during  the  honeymoon,  and 
had  lost  all  comfort  in  life  -before  my  friends  had  done  wishing 
me  joy.  Yet  I  chose  with  caution:  a  girl  bred  wholly  in  the 
country,  who  never  knew  luxury  beyond  one  silk  gown,  nor  dis- 
sipation above  the  annual  gala  of  a  race  ball.  Yet  she  now 
plays  her  part  in  all  the  extravagant  fopperies  of  fashion  and  the 
town  with  as  ready  a  grace  as  if  she  never  had  seen  a  bush  or  a 
grassplot  out  of  Grosvenor  Square!  I  am  sneered  at  by  all  my 
.acquaintance,  and  paragraphed  in  the  newspapers.  She  dissipates 
my  fortune,  and  contradicts  all  my  humors;  yet  the  worst  of  it 
is,  I  doubt  I  love  her,  or  I  should  never  bear  all  this.  However, 
I'll  never  be  weak  enough  to  own  it. 

Enter  Rowley 

Rowley — Oh!  Sir  Peter,  your  servant:  how  is  it  with  you,  sir? 
Sir  Peter  —  Very  bad,  Master  Rowley,  very  bad.     I  meet  with 
nothing  but  crosses  and  vexations. 


I2340  RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

Rowley  —  What  can  have  happened  since  yesterday? 

Sir  Peter  —  A  good  question  to  a  married  man! 

Rowley — Nay,  I'm  sure,  Sir  Peter,  your  lady  can't  be  the 
cause  of  your  uneasiness. 

Sir  Peter  —  Why,  has  anybody  told  you  she  was  dead  ? 

Rowley  —  Come,  come,  Sir  Peter,  you  love  her,  notwithstand- 
ing your  tempers  don't  exactly  agree. 

Sir  Peter — But  the  fault  is  entirely  hers,  Master  Rowley.  I 
am  myself  the  sweetest-tempered  man  alive,  and  hate  a  teasing 
temper;  and  so  I  tell  her  a  hundred  times  a  day. 

Rowley  —  Indeed ! 

Sir  Peter  —  Ay;  and  what  is  very  extraordinary,  in  all  our 
disputes  she  is  always  in  the  wrong.  But  Lady  Sneerwell,  and 
the  set  she  meets  at  her  house,  encourage  the  perverseness  of 
her  disposition.  Then,  to  complete  my  vexation,  Maria,  my 
ward,  whom  I  ought  to  have  the  power  of  a  father  over,  is 
determined  to  turn  rebel  too,  and  absolutely  refuses  the  man 
whom  I  have  long  resolved  on  for  her  husband;  meaning,  I  sup- 
pose, to  bestow  herself  on  his  profligate  brother. 

Rowley  —  You  know.  Sir  Peter,  I  have  always  taken  the  lib- 
erty to  differ  with  you  on  the  subject  of  these  two  young  gentle- 
men. I  only  wish  you  may  not  be  deceived  in  your  opinion  of 
the  elder.  For  Charles,  my  life  on't!  he  will  retrieve  his  errors 
yet.  Their  worthy  father,  once  my  honored  master,  was  at  his 
years  nearly  as  wild  a  spark;  yet  when  he  died,  he  did  not 
leave  a  more  benevolent  heart  to  lament  his  loss. 

Sir  Peter — You  are  wrong,  Master  Rowley.  On  their  father's 
death,  you  know,  I  acted  as  a  kind  of  guardian  to  them  both, 
till  their  uncle  Sir  Oliver's  liberality  gave  them  an  early  inde- 
pendence; of  course,  no  person  could  have  more  opportunities 
of  judging  of  their  hearts:  and  I  was  never  mistaken  in  my 
life.  Joseph  is  indeed  a  model  for  the  young  men  of  the  age. 
He  is  a  man  of  sentiment,  and  acts  up  to  the  sentiments  he 
professes;  but  for  the  other,  take  my  word  for't,  if  he  had  any 
grain  of  virtue  by  descent,  he  has  dissipated  it  with  the  rest  of 
his  inheritance.  Ah !  my  old  friend  Sir  Oliver  will  be  deeply 
mortified  when  he  finds  how  part  of  his  bounty  has  been  mis- 
applied. 

Rowley — I  am  sorry  to  find  you  so  violent  against  the  young 
man,  because  this  may  be  the  most  critical  period  of  his  fortune. 
I  came  hither  with  news  that  will  surprise  you. 

Sir  Peter  —  What!   let  me  hear. 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN       .  I334I 

Rowley  —  Sir  Oliver  is   arrived,  and  at  this  moment  in  town. 

Sir  Peter  —  How  ?  you  astonish  me !  I  thought  you  did  not 
expect  him  this  month. 

Rowley  —  I  did  not ;  but  his  passage  has  been  remarkably 
quick. 

Sir  Peter — Egad,  I  shall  rejoice  to  see  my  old  friend.  'Tis 
sixteen  years  since  we  met.  We  have  had  many  a  day  together; 
but  does  he  still  enjoin  us  not  to  inform  his  nephews  of  his 
arrival  ? 

Roxvley  —  Most  strictly.  He  means,  before  it  is  known,  to 
make   some   trial   of  their  dispositions. 

Sir  Peter  —  Ah!  there  needs  no  art  to  discover  their  merits  — 
however,  he  shall  have  his  way;  but  pray,  does  he  know  I  am 
married  ? 

Rowley  —  Yes,  and  will  soon  wish  you  joy. 

Sir  Peter  —  What,  as  we  drink  health  to  a  friend  in  a  con- 
sumption! Ah!  Oliver  will  laugh  at  me.  We  used  to  rail  at 
matrimony  together,  but  he  has  been  steady  to  his  text.  Well, 
he  must  be  soon  at  my  house,  though:  I'll  instantly  give  orders 
for  his  reception.  But,  Master  Rowley,  don't  drop  a  word  that 
Lady  Teazle  and  I  ever  disagree. 

Rowley  —  By  no  means. 

Sir  Peter — For  I  should  never  be  able  to  stand  Noll's  jokes; 
so  I'll  have  him  think  —  Lord  forgive  me!  —  that  we  are  a  very 
happy  couple. 

Roiuley — I  understand  you;  but  then  you  must  be  very  care- 
ful not  to  differ  while  he  is  in  the  house  with  you. 

Sir  Peter — Egad,  and  so  we  must  —  and  that's  impossible. 
Ah !  Master  Rowley,  when  an  old  bachelor  marries  a  young  wife, 
he  deserves — no,  the  crime  carries  its  punishment  along  with  it. 

\^Exeunt. 

Scene:   A  room  in  Sir  Peter  Teazle's  house.     Enter  Sir  Peter  and  Lady 
Teazle. 

Sir  Peter — Lady  Teazle,  Lady  Teazle,  I'll  not  bear  it. 

Lady  Teazle — Sir  Peter,  Sir  Peter,  you  may  bear  it  or  not,  as 
you  please;  but  I  ought  to  have  my  own  way  in  everything,  and 
what's  more,  I  will,  too.  What!  though  I  was  educated  in  the 
country,  I  know  very  well  that  women  of  fashion  in  London  are 
accountable  to  nobody  after  they  are  married. 


13342  RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN 

Sir  Peter  —  Very  well,  ma'am,  very  well:  so  a  husband  is  to 
have  no  influence,  no  authority  ? 

Lady  Teazle  —  Authority!  No,  to  be  sure.  If  you  wanted 
authority  over  me,  you  should  have  adopted  me,  and  not  married 
me:  I  am  sure  you  were  old  enough. 

Sir  Peter  —  Old  enough! — ay,  there  it  is.  Well,  well.  Lady 
Teazle,  though  my  life  may  be  made  unhappy  by  your  temper, 
I'll  not  be  ruined  by  your  extravagance ! 

Lady  Teazle  —  My  extravagance!  I'm  sure  I'm  not  more  ex- 
travagant than  a  woman  of  fashion  ought  to  be. 

Sir  Peter  —  No,  no,  madam :  you  shall  throw  away  no  more 
sums  on  such  unmeaning  luxury.  'Slife !  to  spend  as  much  to 
furnish  your  dressing-room  with  flowers  in  winter  as  would  suf- 
fice to  turn  the  Pantheon  into  a  greenhouse,  and  give  a  fete 
champetre  at  Christmas. 

Lady  Teazle  —  And  am  I  to  blame.  Sir  Peter,  because  flow- 
ers are  dear  in  cold  weather  ?  You  should  find  fault  with 
the  climate,  and  not  with  me.  For  my  part,  I'm  sure  I  wish  it 
was  spring  all  the  year  round,  and  that  roses  grew  under  our 
feet. 

Sir  Peter — Oons!  madam,  if  you  had  been  born  to  this,  I 
shouldn't  wonder  at  your  talking  thus;  but  you  forget  what  your 
situation  was  when  I  married  you. 

Lady  Teazle  —  No,  no,  I  don't:  'twas  a  very  disagreeable  one, 
or  I  should  never  have  married  you. 

Sir  Peter  —  Yes,  yes,  madam:  you  were  then  in  somewhat  a 
humbler  style  —  the  daughter  of  a  plain  country  squire.  Recol- 
lect, Lady  Teazle,  when  I  saw  you  first  sitting  at  your  tambour, 
in  a  pretty  figured  linen  gown,  with  a  bunch  of  keys  at  your 
side,  your  hair  combed  smooth  over  a  roll, "  and  your  apartment 
hung  round  with  fruits  in  worsted,  of  your  own  working. 

Lady  Teazle — Oh,  yes!  I  remember  it  very  well,  and  a  curi- 
ous life  I  led.  My  daily  occupation  to  inspect  the  dairy,  superin- 
tend the  poultry,  make  extracts  from  the  family  receipt-book,  and 
comb  my  Aunt  Deborah's  lapdog. 

Sir  Peter  —  Yes,   yes,   ma'am,  'twas   so  indeed. 

Lady  Teazle — And  then  you  know  my  evening  amusements! 
To  draw  patterns  for  rufiles,  which  I  had  not  materials  to  make 
up;  to  play  Pope  Joan  with  the  curate;  to  read  a  sermon  to  my 
aunt;  or  to  be  stuck  down  to  an  old  spinet  to  strum  my  father 
to  sleep  after  a  fox-chase. 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN  13343 

Sir  Peter  —  I  am  glad  you  have  so  good  a  memory.  Yes, 
madam,  these  were  the  recreations  I  took  you  from;  but  now 
you  must  have  your  coach  —  vis-a-vis  —  and  three  powdered  foot- 
men before  your  chair;  and  in  the  summer,  a  pair  of  white  cats 
to  draw  you  to  Kensington  Gardens.  No  recollection,  I  suppose, 
when  you  were  content  to  ride  double  behind  the  butler,  on  a 
docked  coach-horse. 

Lady  Teazle  —  No  —  I  swear  I  never  did  that:  I  deny  the  but- 
ler and  the  coach-horse. 

Sir  Peter  —  This,  madam,  was  your  situation;  and  what  have  I 
done  for  you  ?  I  have  made  you  a  woman  of  fashion,  of  fortune, 
of  rank, —  in  short,  I  have  made  you  my  wife. 

Lady  Teazle  —  Well  then,  and  there  is  but  one  thing  more 
you   can   make   me   to   add  to  the   obligation;    that  is  — 

Sir  Peter  —  My  widow,   I  suppose  ? 

Lady   Teazle  —  Hem!  hem! 

Sir  Peter — I  thank  you,  madam  —  but  don't  flatter  yourself; 
for  though  your  ill  conduct  may  disturb  my  peace  of  mind,  it 
shall  never  break  my  heart,  I  promise  you:  however,  I  am 
equally  obliged   to  you   for  the  hint. 

Lady  Teazle — Then  why  will  you  endeavor  to  make  your- 
self so  disagreeable  to  me,  and  thwart  me  in  every  little  elegant 
expense  ? 

Sir  Peter  —  'Slife,  madam,  I  say,  had  you  any  of  these  little 
elegant   expenses  when   you   married   me  ? 

Lady  Teazle — Lud,  Sir  Peter!  would  you  have  me  be  out  of 
the  fashion  ? 

Sir  Peter  —  The  fashion,  indeed!  what  had  you  to  do  with  the 
fashion  before  you  married  me  ? 

Lady  Teazle  —  For  my  part,  I  should  think  you  would  like  to 
have  your  wife  thought  a  woman  of  taste. 

Sir  Peter  —  Ay — there  again  —  taste!  Zounds!  madam,  you 
had  no  taste  when  you   married  me! 

Lady  Teazle  —  That's  very  true,  indeed.  Sir  Peter!  and  after 
having  married  you,  I  should  never  pretend  to  taste  again,  I 
allow.  But  now.  Sir  Peter,  since  we  have  finished  our  daily  jan- 
gle, I  presume  I  may  go  to  my  engagement  at  Lady  Sneerwell's. 

Sir  Peter  —  Ay,  there's  another  precious  circumstance, — a 
charming  set  of  acquaintance   you  have   made   there! 

Lady  Teazle — Nay,  Sir  Peter,  they  are  all  people  of  rank  and 
fortune,   and  remarkably  tenacious  of  reputation. 


13344  RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

Sir  Peter  —  Yes,  egad,  they  are  tenacious  of  reputation  with  a 
vengeance;  for  they  don't  choose  anybody  should  have  a  charac- 
ter but  themselves!  Such  a  crew!  Ah!  many  a  wretch  has 
rid  on  a  hurdle  who  has  done  less  mischief  than  these  utterers 
of  forged  tales,  coiners  of  scandal,  and  clippers  of  reputation. 

Lady  Teazle  —  What,  would  you  restrain  the  freedom  of 
speech  ? 

Sir  Peter  —  Ah!  they  have  made  you  just  as  bad  as  any  one 
of  the  society. 

Lady  Teazle — Why,  I  believe  I  do  bear  a  part  with  a  toler- 
able grace. 

Sir  Peter  —  Grace,  indeed! 

Lady  Teazle — But  I  vow  I  bear  no  malice  against  the  people 
I  abuse:  when  I  say  an  ill-natured  thing,  'tis  out  of  pure  good- 
humor;  and  I  take  it  for  granted  they  deal  -exactly  in  the  same 
manner  with  me.  But,  Sir  Peter,  you  know  you  promised  to 
come  to  Lady  Sneerwell's  too. 

Sir  Peter  —  Well,  well,  I'll  call  in,  just  to  look  after  my  own 
character. 

Lady  Teazle  —  Then  indeed  you  must  make  haste  after  me, 
or  you'll  be  too  late.     So  good-by  to  ye.  \^Exit. 

Sir  Peter  —  So  —  I  have  gained  much  by  my  intended  expos- 
tulation! Yet  with  what  a  charming  air  she  contradicts  every- 
thing I  say,  and  how  pleasantly  she  shows  her  contempt  for 
my  authority!  Well,  though  I  can't  make  her  love  me,  there  is 
great  satisfaction  in  quarreling  with  her;  and  I  think  she  never 
appears  to  such  advantage  as  when  she  is  doing  everything  in 
her  power  to  plague  me.  '  \^Exit. 


SIR  PETER  AND    LADY   TEAZLE  AGREE   TO   DISAGREE 

From  the  <  School  for  Scandal  > 

Sir  Peter  Teazle  discovered:   enter  Lady  Teazle. 

LADY  Teazle  —  Lud!    Sir    Peter,   I   hope  you  haven't  been  quar- 
j     reling    with    Maria  ?      It    is    not   using    me    well    to    be    ill- 
humored  when   I   am  not  by. 
Sir  Peter — Ah,  Lady  Teazle,   you  might  have  the    power   to 
make  me  good-humored  at  all  times. 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN  13345 

Lady  Teazle — I  am  sure  I  wish  I  had;  for  I  want  you  to  be 
in  a  charming  sweet  temper  at  this  moment.  Do  be  good- 
humored  now,   and    let  me   have   two  hundred  pounds,  will  you  ? 

Sir  Peter  —  Two  hundred  pounds!  what,  a'n't  I  to  be  in  a 
good  humor  without  paying  for  it  ?  But  speak  to  me  thus,  and 
i'  faith  there's  nothing  I  could  refuse  you.  You  shall  have  it;  but 
seal  me  a  bond  for  the  payment. 

Lady  Teazle — Oh,  no  —  there  —  my  note  of  hand  will  do  as 
well.  ^Offering  her  hand. 

Sir  Peter  —  And  you  shall  no  longer  reproach  me  with  not 
giving  you  an  independent  settlement.  I  mean  shortly  to  sur- 
prise  you ;    but   shall   we   always  live   thus,  hey  ? 

Lady  Teazle — If  you  please.  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  how  soon 
we  leave  off  quarreling,  provided  you'll  own  you  were  tired  first. 

Sir  Peter — Well  —  then  let  our  future  contest  be,  who  shall 
be  most  obliging. 

Lady  Teazle — I  assure  you,  Sir  Peter,  good-nature  becomes 
you.  You  look  now  as  you  did  before  we  were  married,  when 
you  used  to  walk  with  me  under  the  elms,  and  tell  me  stories  of 
what  a  gallant  you  were  in  your  youth;  and  chuck  me  under  the 
chin,  you  would,  and  ask  me  if  I  thought  I  could  love  an  old 
fellow  who  would  deny  me   nothing  —  didn't  you? 

Sir  Peter — Yes,  yes;  and  you  were  as  kind  and  attentive  — 

Lady  Teazle  —  Ay,  so  I  was;  and  would  always  take  your 
part  when  my  acquaintance  used  to  abuse  you,  and  turn  you 
into  ridicule. 

Sir  Peter  —  Indeed ! 

Lady  Teazle  —  Ay,  and  when  my  cousin  Sophy  has  called  you 
a  stiff,  peevish  old  bachelor,  and  laughed  at  me  for  thinking  of 
marrying  one  who  might  be  my  father,  I  have  always  defended 
you,   and  said  I  didn't  think  you  so  ugly  by  any  means. 

Sir  Peter  —  Thank  you. 

Lady  Teazle  —  And  I  dared  say  you'd  make  a  very  good  sort 
of  a  husband. 

Sir  Peter  —  And  you  prophesied  right;  and  we  shall  now  be 
the  happiest  couple  — 

Lady   Teazle  —  And  never  differ  again  ? 

Sir  Peter  —  No,  never !  —  though  at  the  same  time,  indeed,  my 
dear  Lady  Teazle,  you  must  watch  your  temper  very  seriously; 
for  in  all  our  little  quarrels,  my  dear,  if  you  recollect,  my  love, 
you  always  began  first. 


13346 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 


Lady  Teazle — I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Sir  Peter:  indeed, 
you  always  gave  the  provocation. 

Sir  Peter  —  Now,  see,  my  angel!  take  care:  contradicting  isn't 
the  way  to  keep  friends. 

Lady   Teazle  —  Then  don't  you  begin  it,  my  love! 

Sir  Peter  —  There  now!  you  —  you  are  going  on.  You  don't 
perceive,  my  life,  that  you  are  just  doing  the  very  thing  which 
you  know  always  makes  me   angry. 

Lady  Teazle — Nay,  you  know  if  you  will  be  angry  without 
any  reason,   my  dear  — 

Sir  Peter — There!  now  you  want  to  quarrel  again. 

Lady  Teazle — No,  I'm  sure  I  don't;  but  if  you  will  be  so 
peevish  — 

Sir  Peter — There  now!   who  begins  first? 

Lady  Teazle  —  Why,  you,  to  be  sure.  I  said  nothing  —  but 
there's  no  bearing  your  temper. 

Sir  Peter — No,  no,   madam:    the   fault's  in  your  own  temper. 

Lady  Teazle  —  Ay,  you  are  just  what  my  cousin  Sophy  said 
you  would  be. 

Sir  Peter — Your  cousin  Sophy  is  a  forward,  impertinent 
gipsy. 

Lady  Teazle — You  are  a  great  bear,  I  am  sure,  to  abuse  my 
relations. 

Sir  Peter  —  Now  may  all  the  plagues  of  marriage  be  doubled 
on  me,  if  ever  I  try  to  be  friends  with  you  any  more! 

Lady   Teazle — So  much  the  better. 

Sir  Peter — No,  no,  madam:  'tis  evident  you  never  cared  a 
pin  for  me,  and  I  was  a  madman  ,to  marry  you, —  a  pert  rural 
coquette,  that  had  refused  half  the  honest  'squires  in  the  neigh- 
borhood !' 

Lady  Teazle  —  And  I  am  sure  I  was  a  fool  to  marry  you  —  an 
old  dangling  bachelor,  who  was  single  at  fifty  only  because  he 
could  never  meet  with  any  one  who  would  have  him. 

Sir  Peter  —  Ay,  ay,  madam;  but  you  were  pleased  enough  to 
listen  to  me:   you  never  had  such  an  offer  before. 

Lady  Teazle  —  No!  didn't  I  refuse  Sir  Tivy  Terrier,  who 
everybody  said  would  have  been  a  better  match  ?  for  his  estate  is 
just  as  good  as  yours,  and  he  has  broke  his  neck  since  we  have 
been  married. 

Sir  Peter  —  I  have  done  with  you,  madam !  You  are  an  un- 
feeling, ungrateful  —  but  there's  an  end  of  everything.     I  believe 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN  13347 

you  capable  of  ever3^thing  that  is  bad.  Yes,  madam,  I  now 
believe  the  reports  relative  to  you  and  Charles,  madam.  Yes, 
madam,   you  and  Charles  are,  not  without  grounds  — 

Lady  Teazle  —  Take  care.  Sir  Peter!  you  had  better  not  in- 
sinuate any  such  thing!  I'll  not  be  suspected  without  cause,  I 
promise  you. 

Sir  Peter  —  Very  well,  madam !  very  well !  A  separate  main- 
tenance as  soon  as  you  please.  Yes,  madam;  or  a  divorce!  I'll 
make  an  example  of  myself  for  the  benefit  of  all  old  bachelors. 
Let  us  separate,  madam. 

Lady  Teazle  —  Agreed !  agreed !  And  now,  my  dear  Sir  Peter, 
we  are  of  a  mind  once  more,  we  may  be  the  happiest  couple, 
and  never  differ  again,  you  know:  ha!  ha!  ha!  Well,  yoi:  are 
going  to  be  in  a  passion,  I  see,  and  I  shall  only  interrupt  you  — 
so,  by-by!  \Exit. 

Sir  Peter  —  Plagues  and  tortures !  can't  I  make  her  angry 
either?  Oh,  I  am  the  most  miserable  fellow!  But  I'll  not  bear 
her  presuming  to  keep  her  temper :  no !  she  may  break  my  heart, 
but  she  shan't  keep  her  temper.  \^Exit. 


AUCTIONING   OFF    ONE'S   RELATIVES 
From  the  <  School  for  Scandal  > 

[Charles  Surface,  an  amiable  but  dissipated  young  man  of  fa.shion,  has 
decided  to  raise  money  for  his  pastimes  by  selling  to  a  supposed  « broker » 
his  last  salable  property,  the  family  portraits.  The  purchaser  of  them,  under 
the  name  of  «Mr.  Premium, »  is  Charles's  uncle.  Sir  Oliver  Surface;  who  in 
disguise,  desires  to  study  his  gra(?eless  nephew's  character  and  extravagances. 

The  scene  is  the  disfumished  mansion  of  Charles  in  London;  and  he  is  at 
table  with  several  friends  when  the  feigned  Mr.   Premium  is  presented.] 

CHARLES  Surface  \to  Sir  Oliver^  —  Mr.  Premium,  my  friend 
Moses  is  a  very  honest  fellow,  but  a  little  slow  at  expres- 
sion :  he'll  be  an  hour  giving  us  our  titles.  Mr.  Premium, 
the  plain  state  of  the  matter  is  this:  I  am  an  extravagant  young 
fellow  who  wants  to  borrow  money;  3'ou  I  take  to  be  a  prudent 
old  fellow  who  have  got  money  to  lend.  I  am  blockhead  enough 
to  give  fifty  per  cent,  sooner  than  not  have  it;  and  you,  I  pre- 
sume, are  rogue  enough  to  take  a  hundred  if  you  can  get  it. 
Now,  sir,  you  see  we  are  acquainted  at  once,  and  may  proceed  to 
business  without  further  ceremony. 


13348 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN 


Sir  Oliver — Exceeding  frank,  upon  my  word.  I  see,  sir,  you 
are  not  a  man  of  many  compliments. 

Charles — Oh  no,  sir!  plain  dealing  in  business  I  always  think 
best. 

Sir  O fiver — Sir,  I  like  you  the  better  for  it.  However,  you 
are  mistaken  in  one  thing:  I  have  no  money  to  lend,  but  I 
believe  I  could  procure  some  of  a  friend;  but  then  he's  an  un- 
conscionable dog.  Isn't  he,  Moses  ?  And  must  sell  stock  to 
accommodate   you.     Mustn't  he,   Moses  ? 

Moses  —  Yes,  indeed!  You  know  I  always  speak  the  truth, 
and   scorn   to  tell  a  lie ! 

Charles — Right.  People  that  speak  truth  generally  do.  But 
these  are  trifles,  Mr.  Premium.  What!  I  know  money  isn't  to  be 
bought  without  paying  for't! 

Sir  Oliver  —  Well,  but  what  security  could  you  give?  You 
have  no  land,  I  suppose  ? 

Charles  —  Not  a  mole-hill,  nor  a  twig,  but  what's  in  the 
bough-pots  out  of  the  window! 

Sir  Oliver  —  Nor  any  stock,  I  presume  ? 

Charles  —  Nothing  but  live-stock  —  and  that  only  a  few  pointers 
and  ponies.  But  pray,  Mr.  Premium,  are  you  acquainted  at  all 
with  any  of  my  connections  ? 

Sir  Oliver  —  Why,  to  say  truth,  I  am. 

Charles  —  Then  you  must  know  that  I  have  a  devilish  rich 
uncle  in  the  East  Indies  —  Sir  Oliver  Surface  —  from  whom  I  have 
the  greatest  expectations  ? 

Sir  Oliver  —  That  you  have  a  wealthy  uncle,  I  have  heard; 
but  how  your  expectations  will  turn  out  is  more,  I  believe,  than 
you  can  tell. 

Charles  —  Oh,  no!  there  can  be  no  doubt.  They  tell  me  I'm 
a  prodigious  favorite,  and  that  he  talks  of  leaving  me  every- 
thing. 

Sir  Oliver — Indeed!     This  is  the  first  I've  heard  of  it. 

Charles  —  Yes,  yes,  'tis  just  so.  Moses  knows  'tis  true;  don't 
you,  Moses  ? 

Moses  —  Oh,  yes!    I'll  swear  to't. 

Sir  Oliver  [aside']  —  Egad,  they'll  persuade  me  presently  I'm 
at   Bengal. 

Charles  —  Now  I  propose,  Mr.  Premium,  if  it's  agreeable  to 
you,  a  post-obit  on  Sir  Oliver's  life;  thoiigh  at  the  same  time  the 
old  fellow  has  been  so  liberal  to  me,  that  I  give  you  my  word  I 
should  be  very  sorry  to  hear  that  anything  had  happened  to  him. 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  13349 

Sir  Oliver — Not  more  than  I  should,  I  assure  you.  But  the 
bond  you  mention  happens  to  be  just  the  worst  security  you 
could  offer  me  —  for  I  might  Hve  to  a  hundred  and  never  see  the 
principal. 

Charles  —  Oh  yes,  you  would !  The  moment  Sir  Oliver  dies, 
you  know,  you  would  come  on  me  for  the  money. 

Sir  Oliver  —  Then  I  believe  I  should  be  the  most  unwelcome 
dun  you  ever  had  in  your  life. 

diaries  —  What!  I  suppose  you're  afraid  that  Sir  Oliver  is 
too  good  a  life  ? 

Sir  Oliver  —  No,  indeed  I  am  not ;  though  I  have  heard  he  is 
as  hale  and  healthy  as  any  man  of  his  years  in  Christendom. 

Charles  —  There  again,  now,  you  are  misinformed.  No,  no: 
the  climate  has  hurt  him  considerably  —  poor  Uncle  Oliver.  Yes, 
yes,  he  breaks  apace,  I'm  told^ — and  is  so  much  altered  lately 
that  his  nearest  relations  would  not  know  him. 

Sir  Oliver  —  No!  Ha!  ha!  ha!  so  much  altered  lately  that 
his  nearest  relations  would  not  know  him!  Ha!  ha!  ha!  egad — • 
ha!   ha!   ha! 

Charles — Ha!  ha!  ha!  —  you're  glad  to  hear  that,  little  Pre- 
mium ? 

Sir  Oliver — No,   no,   I'm  not. 

Charles  —  Yes,  yes,  you  are  —  ha!  ha!  ha!  —  you  know  that 
mends  your  chance. 

Sir  Oliver — But  I'm  told  Sir  Oliver  is  coming  over;  nay, 
some   say  he  is  actually  arrived. 

Charles  —  Psha !  sure  I  must  know  better  than  you  whether 
he's  come  or  not.  No,  no:  rely  on't  he's  at  this  moment  at 
Calcutta.     Isn't  he,   Moses  ? 

Moses — Oh,  yes,   certainly. 

Sir  Oliver  —  Very  true,  as  you  say,  you  must  know  better 
than  I;  though  I  have  it  from  pretty  good  authority.  Haven't  I, 
Moses  ? 

Moses  —  Yes,  most  tmdoubted ! 

Sir  Oliver — But,  sir,  as  I  imderstand  you  want  a  few  hun- 
dreds immediately,  is  there  nothing  you  could  dispose  of  ? 

Charles — How  do  you  mean? 

Sir  Oliver — For  instance,  now,  I  have  heard  that  your  father 
left  behind  him  a  great  quantity  of  massy  old  plate. 

Charles  —  O  Lud !  that's  gone  long  ago.  Moses  can  tell  you 
how  better  than  I  can. 


13350  RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

Sir  Oliver  [aside]  —  Good  lack !  all  the  family  race  cups  and 
corporation  bowls!  [Aloud.]  Then  it  was  also  supposed  that 
his   library  was  one   of  the  most  valuable   and  compact. 

Charles  —  Yes,  yes,  so  it  was, —  vastly  too  much  so  for  a 
private  gentleman.  For  my  part,  I  was  always  of  a  communicat- 
ive disposition,  so  I  thought  it  a  shame  to  keep  so  much  knowl- 
edge to  myself. 

Sir  Oliver  [aside]  —  Mercy  upon  me!  learning  that  had  run 
in  the  family  like  an  heirloom!  [Aloud.]  Pray,  what  are  be- 
come of  the  books  ? 

Charles  —  You  must  inquire  of  the  auctioneer,  Master  Pre- 
mium;' for   I   don't   believe   even   Moses  can  direct  you. 

Moses  —  I  know  nothing  of  books. 

Sir  Oliver — So,  so:  nothing  of  the  family  property  left,  I 
suppose  ? 

Charles — Not  much,  indeed;  unless  you  have  a  mind  to  the 
family  pictures.  I  have  got  a  room  full  of  ancestors  above;  and 
if  you  have  a  taste  for  old  paintings,  egad,  you  shall  have  'em  a 
bargain ! 

Sir  Oliver — Hey!  what  the  devil!  sure,  you  wouldn't  sell 
your  forefathers,   would  you  ? 

Charles — Every  man  of  them,  to  the  best  bidder. 

Sir  Oliver  —  What!    your  great-uncles  and  aunts? 

Charles  —  Ay;  and  my  great-grandfathers  and  grandmothers 
too. 

Sir  Oliver  [aside] — Now  I  give  him  up!  [Aloud.]  What  the 
plague,  have  you  no  bowels  for  your  own  kindred?  Odds  life! 
do  you  take  me  for  Shylock  in  the  play,  that  you  would  raise 
money  of  me  on   your  own  flesh  and  blood  ? 

Charles  —  Nay,  my  little  broker,  don't  be  angry:  what  need 
you  care,   if  you  have  your  money's  worth  ? 

Sir  Oliver  —  Well,  I'll  be  the  purchaser:  I  think  I  can  dispose 
of  the  family  canvas.  [Aside.]  Oh,  I'll  never  forgive  him  this! 
never ! 

Enter  Careless 

Careless  —  Come,  Charles,  what  keeps  you? 

Charles — I  can't  come  yet.  I'  faith,  we  are  going  to  have  a 
sale  aboye-stairs;  here's  little  Premium  will  buy  all  my  ances- 
tors! 

Careless  —  Oh,  burn  your  ancestors ! 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  I335I 

Charles  —  No,  he  may  do  that  afterwards  if  he  pleases.  Stay, 
Careless,  we  want  you:  egad,  you  shall  be  auctioneer;  so  come 
along  with  us. 

Careless — Oh,  have  with  you,  if  that's  the  case.  I  can  handle 
a  hammer  as  well  as  a  dice-box!     Going!  going! 

Sir  Oliver  [aside]  —  Oh,  the  profligates! 

Charles  —  Come,  Moses,  you  shall  be  appraiser,  if  we  want 
one.  Gad's  life,  little  Premium,  you  don't  seem  to  like  the  busi- 
ness ? 

Sir  Oliver  —  Oh,  yes,  I  do,  vastly!  Ha!  ha!  ha!  yes,  yes,  I 
think  it  a  rare  joke  to  sell  one's  family  by  auction  —  ha!  ha! 
[Aside.]     Oh,  the    prodigal! 

Charles  —  To  be  sure!  when  a  man  wants  money,  where  the 
plague  should  he  get  assistance  if  he  can't  make  free  with  his 
own  relations  ?  [Exeunt. 

Sir  Oliver  [aside,  as  they  go  out]  —  I'll  never  forgive  him; 
never !    never ! 

Scene:   A  picture  room  in  Charles  Surface's  house.     Enter  Charles  Sur- 
face, Sir  Oliver  Surface,  Moses,  and  Careless. 

Charles — Walk  in,  gentlemen,  pray  walk  in  —  here  they  are: 
the  family  of  the  Surfaces,  up  to  the  Conquest. 

Sir  Oliver  —  And  in  my  opinion,  a  goodly  collection. 

Charles  —  Ay,  ay,  these  are  done  in  the  true  spirit  of  portrait- 
painting;  no  volontiere  grace  or  expression.  Not  like  the  works  of 
your  modern  Raphaels,  who  give  you  the  strongest  resemblance, 
yet  contrive  to  make  your  portrait  independent  of  you ;  so  that 
you  may  sink  the  original  and  not  hurt  the  picture.  No,  no:  the 
merit  of  these  is  the  inveterate  likeness  —  all  stiff  and  awkward 
as  the  originals,  and  like  nothing  in  human  nature  besides. 

Sir  Oliver  —  Ah!  we  shall  never  see  such  figures  of  men 
again. 

Charles — I  hope  not.  Well,  you  see.  Master  Premium,  what 
a  domestic  character  I  am ;  here  I  sit  of  an  evening  surrounded 
by  my  family.  But  come,  get  to  your  pulpit,  Mr.  Auctioneer; 
here's  an  old  gouty  chair  of  my  grandfather's  will  answer  the 
purpose. 

Careless  —  Ay,  ay,  this  will  do.  But,  Charles,  I  haven't  a 
hammer;    and   what's  an  auctioneer  without  his  hammer? 

Charles — Egad,  that's  true.  What  parchment  have  we  here? 
Oh.  our   genealogy    in    full.     [Taking   the  pedigree  down.]     Here, 


13352  RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

Careless,  you  shall  have  no  common  bit  of  mahogany:  here's 
the  family  tree  for  you,  you  rogue!  This  shall  be  your  hammer, 
and  now  you  may  knock  down  my  ancestors  with  their  own  pedi- 
gree. 

Sir  Oliver  [aside]  —  What  an  unnatural  rogue!  —  an  ex  post 
facto  parricide! 

Careless — Yes,  yes,  here's  a  list  of  your  generation  indeed. 
'Faith,  Charles,  this  is  the  most  convenient  thing  you  could 
have  found  for  the  business,  for  'twill  not  only  serve  as  a  ham- 
mer, but  a  catalogue  into  the  bargain.  Come,  begin —  A-going, 
a-going,  a-going! 

Charles  —  Bravo,  Careless!  Well,  here's  my  great-uncle.  Sir 
Richard  Raveline:  a  marvelous  good  general  in  his  day^  I  assure 
you.  He  served  in  all  the  Duke  of  Marlborough's  wars,  and 
got  that  cut  over  his  eye  at  the  battle  of  Malplaquet.  What  say 
you,  Mr.  Premium?  Look  at  him  —  there's  a  hero!  not  cut  out 
of  his  feathers,  as  your  modem  clipped  captains  are,  but  envel- 
oped in  wig  and  regimentals,  as  a  general  should  be.  What  do 
you  bid  ? 

Sir  Oliver  [aside  to  Moses]  —  Bid  him  speak. 

Moses  —  Mr.   Premium  would  have  you  speak. 

Charles  —  Why,  then,  he  shall  have  him  for  ten  pounds;  and 
I'm   sure   that's  not   dear  for  a  staff-officer. 

Sir  Oliver  [aside]  —  Heaven  deliver  me !  his  famous  uncle 
Richard  for  ten  pounds!  [Aloud.]  Very  well,  sir,  I  take  him 
at  that. 

Charles  —  Careless,  knock  down  my  uncle  Richard.  —  Here 
now  is  a  maiden  sister  of  his,  my  great-aunt  Deborah;  done  by 
Kneller  in  his  best  manner,  and  esteemed  a  very  formidable  like- 
ness. There  she  is,  you  see:  a  shepherdess  feeding  her  flock. 
You  shall  have  her  for  five  pounds  ten, —  the  sheep  are  worth 
the  money. 

Sir  Oliver  [aside] — Ah!  poor  Deborah!  a  woman  who  set 
such  a  value  on  herself!  [Aloud.]  Five  pounds  ten  —  she's 
mine. 

Charles  —  Knock  down  my  aunt  Deborah!  Here  now  are  two 
that  were  a  sort  of  cousins  of  theirs.  You  see,  Moses,  these 
pictures  were  done  some  time  ago,  when  beaux  wore  wigs,  and 
the   ladies  their  own  hair. 

Sir  Oliver  —  Yes,  truly,  head-dresses  appear  to  have  been  a 
little   lower  in  those  days. 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  •  13353 

Charles  —  "Well,  take  that  couple  for  the  same. 

Moses — 'Tis  a  good  bargain. 

Charles — Careless!  —  This  now  is  a  grandfather  of  my  moth- 
er's; a  learned  judge,  well  known  on  the  western  circuit.  What 
do  you  rate  him  at,  Moses  ? 

Moses — Four  guineas. 

Charles  —  Four  guineas!  Gad's  life,  you  don't  bid  me  the 
price  of  his  wig.  Mr.  Premium,  you  have  more  respect  for  the 
woolsack:  do  let  us  knock  his  Lordship  down  at  fifteen. 

Sir  Oliver  —  By  all  means. 

Careless  —  Gone  I 

Charles  —  And  there  are  two  brothers  of  his,  William  and 
Walter  Blunt,  Esquires,  both  members  of  Parliament,  and  noted 
speakers;  and  what's  very  extraordinary,  I  believe  this  is  the 
first  time   they  were  ever  bought  or  sold. 

Sir  Oliver  —  That  is  very  extraordinary,  indeed!  I'll  take 
them  at  your  own   price,  for  the   honor  of   Parliament. 

Careless  —  Well  said,  little  Premium!  Pll  knock  them  down 
at  forty. 

Charles — Here's  a  jolly  fellow — I  don't  know  what  relation, 
but  he  was  mayor  of  Norwich:   take  him  at  eight  pounds. 

Sir  Oliver  —  No,  no:   six  will  do  for  the  mayor. 

Charles  —  Come,  make  it  guineas,  and  I'll  throw  you  the  two 
aldermen  there  into  the  bargain. 

Sir  Oliver — They're  mine. 

Charles  —  Careless,  knock  down  the  mayor  and  aldermen.  But 
plague  on't!  we  shall  be  all  day  retailing  in  this  manner:  do  let 
us  deal  wholesale ;  what  say  you,  little  Pi-cmium  ?  Give  me  three 
hundred  pounds  for  the  rest  of  the  family  in  the  lump. 

Careless  —  Ay,  ay:   that  will  be  the  best  way. 

Sir  Oliver — Well,  well, —  anything  to  accommodate  you:  they 
are  mine.  But  there  is  one  portrait  which  you  have  always 
passed  over. 

Careless  —  What,  that  ill-looking  little  fellow  over  the  set- 
tee? 

Sir  Oliver — Yes,  sir,  T  mean  that;  though  I  don't  think  him 
so  ill-looking  a  little  fellow,   by  any  means. 

Charles  — ^\ydX,  that?  Oh,  that's  my  Uncle  Oliver!  'Twas 
done  before  he  went  to  India. 

Careless  —  Your  Uncle  Oliver!  Gad,  then  you'll  never  be 
friends,  Charles.  That  now,  to  me,  is  as  stern  a  looking  rogue 
as   ever  I  saw;  an  unforgiving  eye,  and  a  damned  disinheriting 


l^^^A  •  RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN 

countenance !  an  inveterate  knave,  depend  on't.      Don't  you  think 
so,  little  Premium  ? 

Sir  Oliver — Upon  my  soul,  sir,  I  do  not:  I  think  it  is  as 
honest  a  looking  face  as  any  in  the  room,  dead  or  alive.  But  I 
suppose  Uncle  Oliver  goes  with  the  rest  of  the  lumber  ? 

Charles  —  No,  hang  it!  I'll  not  part  with  poor  Noll.  The  old 
fellow  has  been  very  good  to  me,  and  egad,  I'll  keep  his  picture 
while  I've  a  room  to  put  it  in. 

Sir  Oliver  [aside] — The  rogue's  my  nephew  after  alii  — 
[Aloud.]  But,  sir,  I  have  somehow  taken  a  fancy  to  that  pict- 
ure. 

diaries — I'm  sorry  for't,  for  you  certainly  will  not  have  it. 
Oons !    haven't  you  got  enough  of  them  ? 

Sir  Oliver  [aside]  —  I  forgive  him  everything!  [Aloud.]  But, 
sir,  when  I  take  a  whim  in  my  head,  I  don't  value  money.  I'll 
give  you  as  much  for  that  as  for  all  the  rest. 

Charles  —  Don't  tease  me,  master  broker:  I  tell  you  I'll  not 
part  with  it,  and  there's  an  end  of  it. 

Sir  Oliver  [aside]  —  How  like  his  father  the  dog  is!  [Aloud.] 
Well,  well,  I  have  done.  [Aside.]  I  did  not  perceive  it  before, 
but  I  think  I  never  saw  such  a  striking  resemblance.  [Aloud.] 
Here  is  a  draught  for  your  sum. 

Charles — Why,  'tis  for  eight  hundred  pounds! 

Sir  Oliver — You  will  not  let  Sir  Oliver  go? 

Charles  —  Zounds!    no,  I  tell  you,   once  more. 

Sir  Oliver  —  Then  never  mind  the  difference:  we'll  balance 
that  another  time.  But  give  me  your  hand  on  the  bargain;  you 
are  an  honest  fellow,  Charles — I  beg  pardon,  sir,  for  being  so 
free.     Come,   Moses. 

Charles — Egad,  this  is  a  whimsical  old  fellow!  —  But  hark'ee, 
Premium,   you'll  prepare  lodgings  for  these  gentlemen. 

Sir  Oliver — Yes,  yes;   I'll  send  for  them  in  a  day  or  two. 

Charles  —  But  hold,  —  do  now  send  a  genteel  conveyance  foi 
them;  for  I  assure  you  they  were  most  of  them  used  to  ride  in 
their  own  carriages. 

Sir  Oliver  —  I  will,   I  will  —  for  all  but  Oliver. 

Charles  —  Ay,  all  but  the  little  nabob. 

Sir  Oliver  —  You're  fixed  on  that? 

Charles  —  Peremptorily. 

Sir  Oliver  [aside] — A  dear  extravagant  rogue!  [Aloud.] 
Good-day!  —  Come,  Moses.  [Aside.]  Let  me  hear  now  who 
dares  call  him  a  profligate!  \^Exit  with  Moses. 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  13355 

Careless  —  Why,  this  is  the  oddest  genius  of  the  sort  I  ever 
met  with. 

Charles — Egad,  he's  the  prince  of  brokers,  I  think.  I  wonder 
how  the  devil  Moses  got  acquainted  with  so  honest  a  fellow. — 
Ha!  -here's  Rowley. —  Do,  Careless,  say  I'll  join  the  company  in  a 
few  moments. 

Careless — I  will  —  but  don't  let  that  old  blockhead  persuade 
you  to  squander  any  of  that  money  on  old  musty  debts,  or  any 
such  nonsense;  for  tradesmen,  Charles,  are  the  most  exorbitant 
fellows. 

Charles — Very  true;  and  paying  them  is  only  encouraging 
them. 

Careless  —  Nothing  else. 

Charles  —  Ay,  ay,  never  fear.  \Exit  Careless.']  So!  this  was 
an  odd  old  fellow,  indeed.  Let  me  see:  two-thirds  of  these  five 
hundred  and  thirty  odd  pounds  are  mine  by  right.  'Fore  heaven! 
I  find  one's  ancestors  are  more  valuable  relations  than  I  took 
them  for!  —  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  your  most  obedient  and  very 
grateful  servant.  \^Bows  ceremoniously  to  the  pictures. 


THE  PLEASURES   OF    FRIENDLY   CRITICISM 

From  <The  Critic  > 

Scene :    The  lodgings  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dangle.     Enter  Servant. 

SERVANT — Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  sir. 
Dangle  —  Beg   him    to   walk   up.      \Exit    Servant.]     Now, 
Mrs.  Dangle,  Sir   Fretful  Plagiary  is  an  author  to  your  own 
taste. 

Mrs.    Dangle — I    confess    he    is    a    favorite    of    mine,   because 
everybody  else  abuses  him. 

Sneer — Very  much   to  the   credit  of   your   charity,  madam,  if 
not  of  your  judgment. 

Dangle — But,  egad,   he    allows   no   merit   to   any    author    but 
himself;    that's   the  truth   on't  —  though  he's  my   friend. 

Sneer — Never!     He  is  as  envious  as  an   old   maid  verging  on 
the  desperation  of  six-and-thirty. 

Dangle  —  Very  true,  egad  —  though  he's  my  friend. 

Sneer  —  Then   his   affected   contempt   of   all    newspaper   strict- 
ures; though   at  the    same  time   he  is  the  sorest  man  alive,  and 


13356  RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

shrinks  like  scorched  parchment  from  the  fiery  ordeal  of  true  crit- 
icism. 

Dangle  —  There's  no  denying  it  —  though  he  is  my  friend. 

Sneer — You  have  read  the  tragedy  he  has  just  finished,  have' 
n't  you  ? 

Dangle  —  Oh  yes:  he  sent  it  to  me  yesterday. 

Sneer  —  Well,  and  you  think  it  execrable,  don't  you? 

Dangle  —  Why,  between  ourselves,  egad,  I  must  own  —  though 
he's  my  friend  —  that  it  is  one  of  the  most —  \^Aside.'\  He's 
here.      \^Aloud^ — finished  and  most  admirable  perform  — 

Sir  Fretful  [without']  —  Mr.   Sneer  with  him,  did  you  say? 

Enter  Sir  Fretful 

Dafigle — Ah,  my  dear  friend!  Egad,  we  were  just  speaking 
of  your  tragedy.     Admirable,  Sir  Fretful,  admirable! 

Sneer  —  You  never  did  anything  beyond  it,  Sir  Fretful, — never 
in  your  life. 

Sir  Fretful —  You  make  me  extremely  happy ;  for  without  a 
compliment,  my  dear  Sneer,  there  isn't  a  man  in  the  world  whose 
judgment  I  value  as  I  do  yours  —  and  Mr.  Dangle's. 

Mrs.  Dangle  —  They  are  only  laughing  at  you.  Sir  Fretful;  for 
it  was  but  just  now  that  — 

Dangle — Mrs.  Dangle!  Ah,  Sir  Fretful,  you  know  Mrs.  Dan- 
gle. My  friend  Sneer  was  rallying  just  nov/  —  he  knows  how  she 
admires  you,  and  — 

Sir  Fretful — O  Lord,  I  am  sure  Mr.  Sneer  has  more  taste 
and  sincerity  than  to —  [Aside.]  A  damned  double-faced  fel- 
low! 

Dangle  —  Yes,  yes.  Sneer  will  jest  —  but  a  better-humored  — 

Sir  Fretful — Oh,  I  know  — 

Dangle  —  He  has  a  ready  turn  for  ridicule;  his  wit  costs  him 
nothing. 

Sir  Fretful  [aside] — No,  egad  —  or  I  should  wonder  how  he 
came  by  it. 

Dangle — But,  Sir  Fretful,  have  you  sent  your  play  to  the 
managers  yet  ?   or  can  I  be  of  any  service  to  you  ? 

Sir  Fretful — No,  no,  I  thank  you:  I  sent  it  to  the  manager 
of  Covent  Garden  Theatre  this  morning. 

Sneer  —  I  should  have  thought,  now,  that  it  might  have  been 
cast  (as  the  actors  call  it)  better  at  Drury  Lane. 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  1^357 

Sir  Fretful — O  Lud!  no  —  never  send  a  play  there  while  I 
live  —      Hark'ee !  [  Whispers  to  Sneer. 

Sneer  —  "  Writes  himself !  '^     I  know  he  does. 

Sir  .Fretful — I  say  nothing — I  take  away  from  no  man's 
merit  —  am  hurt  at  no  man's  good  fortune;  I  say  nothing.  But 
this  I  will  say, —  Through  all  my  knowledge  of  life,  I  have 
observed  that  there  is  not  a  passion  so  strongly  rooted  in  the 
human  heart  as  envy! 

Sneer — I  believe  you  have  reason  for  what  you  say,  indeed. 

Sir  Fretful —  Besides,  I  can  tell  you  it  is  not  always  so  safe 
to  leave  a  play  in  the  hands  of  those  who  write  themselves. 

Sneer  —  What!  they  may  steal  from  them,  hey,  my  dear  Pla- 
giary ? 

Sir  Fretful — Steal!  To  be  sure  they  may;  and  egad,  serve 
your  best  thoughts  as  gipsies  do  stolen  children,  —  disfigure  them 
to  make  'cm  pass  for  their  own. 

Sneer — But  your  present  work  is  a  sacrifice  to  Melpomene; 
and  he,  you   know,  never  — 

Sir  Fretfil — That's  no  security.  A  dexterous  plagiarist  may 
do  anything.  Why,  sir,  for  aught  I  know,  he  might  take  out 
some  of  the  best  things  in  my  tragedy,  and  put  them  into  his 
own  comedy. 

Sneer  —  That  might  be  done,  I  dare  be  sworn. 

Sir  Fretful — And  then,  if  such  a  person  gives  you  the  least 
hint  or  assistance,  he  is  devilish  apt  to  take  the  merit  of  the 
whole  — 

Dangle — If  it  succeeds. 

Sir  Fretful — Ay  —  but  with  regard  to  this  piece,  I  think  I 
can  hit  that  gentleman,  for  I  can  safely  swear  he  never  read  it. 

Sneer — I'll  tell  you  how  you  may  hurt  him  more. 

Sir  Fretful —  How  ? 

Sneer  —  Swear  he  wrote  it. 

Sir  Fretful — Plague  on't  now.  Sneer,  I  shall  take  it  ill.  I 
believe  you  want  to  take  away  my  character  as  an  author! 

Sneer  —  Then  I  am  sure  you  ought  to  be  very  much  obliged 
to  me. 

Sir  Fretful— Yiey\     Sir! 

Dangle — Oh,  you  know  he  never  means  what  he  says. 

Sir  Fretful — Sincerely,  then, —  you  do  like  the  piece? 

Sneer  —  Wonderfully ! 


13358  RICHARD   BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN 

Sir  Fretful — But  come  now,  there  must  be  something  that 
you  think  might  be  mended,  hey?  —  Mr.  Dangle,  has  nothing 
struck  you  ? 

Dangle  —  Why,  faith,  it  is  but  an  ungracious  thing,  for  the 
most  part,  to  — 

Sir  Fretful — With  most  authors  it  is  just  so  indeed:  they 
are  in  general  strangely  tenacious!  But  for  my  part,  I  am  never 
so  well  pleased  as  when  a  judicious  critic  points  out  any  defect 
to  me;  for  what  is  the  purpose  of  showing  a  work  to  a  friend,  if 
you  don't  mean  to  profit  by  his  opinion  ? 

Sneer  —  Very  true.  Why  then,  though  I  seriously  admire  the 
piece  upon  the  whole,  yet  there  is  one  small  objection ;  which,  if 
you'll  give  me  leave,  I'll  mention 

Sir  Fretful — Sir,  you  can't  oblige  me  more. 

Sneer  —  I  think  it  wants  incident. 

Sir  Fretful — Good  God!  —  you  surprise  me!  —  wants  incident! 

Sneer  —  Yes:   I  own  I  think  the  incidents  are  too  few. 

Sir  Fretful — Good  God!  —  Believe  me,  Mr.  Sneer,  there  is  no 
person  for  whose  judgment  I  have  a  more  implicit  deference. 
But  I  protest  to  you,  Mr.  Sneer,  I  am  only  apprehensive  that  the 
incidents  are  too  crowded.  My  dear  Dangle,  how  does  it  strike 
you  ? 

Dangle — Really,  I  can't  agree  with  my  friend  Sneer.  I  think 
the  plot  quite  sufficient;  and  the  four  first  acts  by  many  degrees 
the  best  I  ever  read  or  saw  in  my  life.  If  I  might  venture  to 
suggest  anything,  it  is  that  the  interest  rather  falls  off  in  the 
fifth. 

Sir  Fretful — Rises,  I  believe  you  mean,  sir. 

Dangle  —  No,  I  don't,  upon  my  word. 

Sir  Fretful — Yes,  yes,  you  do,  upon  my  soul:  it  certainly 
don't  fall  off,  I  assure  you.      No,  no,  it  don't  fall  off. 

Dangle  —  Now,  Mrs.  Dangle,  didn't  you  say  it  struck  you  in 
the   same  light  ? 

Mrs.  Dangle — No,  indeed  I  did  not.  I  did  not  see  a  fault  in 
any  part  of  the  play  from  the  beginning  to  the  end. 

Sir  Fretful  [crossing  to  Mrs.  Dangle']  —  Upon  my  soul,  the 
women   are  the  best  judges  after  all! 

Mrs.  Dangle — Or  if  I  made  any  objection,  I  am  sure  it  was 
to  nothing  in  the  piece!  but  that  I  was  afraid  it  was,  on  the 
whole,  a  little  too  long. 


11 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN  I3'?59 

Sir  Fretful — Pray,  madam,  do  you  speak  as  to  duration  of 
time;    or  do  you   mean   that  the   story  is   tediously   spun  out? 

Mrs.  Dangle  —  O  Lud'  no.  I  speak  only  with  reference  to 
the  usual  length  of  acting  plays. 

Sir  Fretful — Then  I  am  v^ery  happy  —  very  happy  indeed; 
because  the  play  is  a  short  play  —  a  remarkably  short  play.  I 
should  not  venture  to  differ  with  a  lady  on  a  point  of  taste;  but 
on  these  occasions,  the  watch,  you  know,  is  the  critic. 

Mrs.  Dangle — Then  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  Mr.  Bangle's 
drawling  manner  of  reading  it  to  me. 

Sir  Fretful — Oh,  if  Mr.  Dangle  read  it,  that's  quite  another 
affair!  But  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Dangle,  the  first  evening  you  can 
spare  me  three  hour's  and  a  half,  I'll  undertake  to  read  you  the 
whole  from  beginning  to  end,  with  the  Prologue  and  Epilogue, 
and  allow  time  for  the  music  between  the  acts. 

Mrs.  Dangle — I  hope  to  see  it  on  the  stage  next.         \Exit. 

Dangle  —  Well,  Sir  Fretful,  I  wish  you  may  be  able  to  get 
rid  as  easily  of  the  newspaper  criticisms  as  you  do  of  ours. 

Sir  Fretfd — The  newspapers!  Sir,  they  are  the  most  villain- 
ous—  licentious  —  abominable — infernal —  Not  that  I  ever  read 
them!    no!     I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  look  into  a  newspaper. 

Dangle  —  You  are  quite  right;  for  it  certainly  must  hurt  an 
author  of  delicate  feelings  to  see   the  liberties  they   take. 

Sir  Fretful — No!  quite  the  contrary:  their  abuse  is  in  fact 
the  best  panegyric.  I  like  it  of  all  things.  An  author's  reputa- 
tion is  only  in  danger  from  their  support. 

Sneer  —  Why,  that's  true;  and  that  attack  now  on  you  the 
other  day  — 

Sir  Fretful — What  ?  where  ? 

Dangle — Ay,  you  mean  in  a  paper  of  Thursday:  it  was  com- 
pletely ill-natured,  to  be  sure. 

Sir  Fretful — Oh,  so  much  the  better.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  I 
wouldn't   have   it   otherwise. 

Dangle  —  Certainly,  it  is  only  to  be  laughed  at;    for  — 

Sir  Fretful — You  don't  happen  to  recollect  what  the  fellow 
said,  do  you  ? 

Sneer — Pray,  Dangle  —  Sir  Fretful  seems  a  little  anxious  — 

Sir  Fretful — O  Lud,   no!  —  anxious?. —  not    I  —  not   the  least 
I —     But  one  may  as  well  hear,  you  know. 

Dangle — Sneer,  do  you  recollect?  \_Aside.^  Make  out  some^ 
thing. 


13360  RICHARD   BRINSLEY   SHERIDAN 

Sneer  [aside,  to  Dangle']  —  I  will.  [Aloud.]  Yes,  y§s,  I  remem- 
ber perfectly. 

Sir  Fretful — Well,  and  pray  now  —  not  that  it  signifies  —  what 
might  the  gentleman  say  ? 

Sneer  —  Why,  he  roundly  asserts  that  you  have  not  the  slight- 
est invention  or  original  genius  whatever;  though  you  are  the 
greatest  traducer  of  all  other  authors  living. 

Sir  Fretful — Ha!    ha!   ha!     Very  good! 

Sneer — That  as  to  comedy,  you  have  not  one  idea  of  your 
own,  he  believes,  even  in  your  commonplace  book;  where  stray 
jokes  and  pilfered  witticisms  are  kept  with  as  much  method  as 
the  ledger  of  the  Lost  and  Stolen  Office. 

Sir  Fretful — Hal   ha!   ha!     Very  pleasant! 

Sneer  —  Nay,  that  you  are  so  unlucky  as  not  to  have  the  skill 
even  to  steal  with  taste:  but  that  you  glean  from  the  refuse  of 
obscure  volumes,  where  more  judicious  plagiarists  have  been 
before  you;  so  that  the  body  of  your  work  is  a  composition  of 
dregs  and  sediments,  like  a  bad  tavern's  worst  wine. 

Sir  Fretful — Ha!  ha! 

Sneer — In  your  most  serious  efforts,  he  says,  your  bombast 
would  be  less  intolerable,  if  the  thoughts  were  ever  suited  to  the 
expression;  but  the  homeliness  of  the  sentiment  stares  through 
the  fantastic  incumbrance  of  its  fine  language,  like  a  clown  in 
one  of  the  new  uniforms! 

Sir  Fretful — Ha!   ha! 

Sneer  —  That  your  occasional  tropes  and  flowers  suit  the  gen- 
eral coarseness  of  your  style  as  tambour  sprigs  would  a  ground 
of  linsey-woolsey;  while  your  imitations  of  Shakespeare  resemble 
the  mimicry  of  Falstaff's  page,  and  are  about  as  near  the  stand- 
ard of  the  original. 

Sir  Fretful — Ha! 

Sneer  —  In  short,  that  even  the  finest  passages  you  steal  are 
of  no  service  to  you,  for  the  poverty  of  your  own  language  pre- 
vents their  assimilating;  so  that  they  lie  on  the  surface  like 
lumps  of  marl  on  a  barren  moor,  incumbering  what  it  is  not  in 
their  power  to  fertilize! 

Sir  Fretful  [after  great  agitation]  —  Now,  another  person 
would  be  vexed  at  this.  . 

Sneer — Oh!  but  I  wouldn't  have  told  you,  only  to  divert  you. 

Sir  Fretful — I  know  it — I  am  diverted.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  —  not 
the  least  invention!     Ha!   ha!   ha!     Very  good!   very  good! 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN  13361 

Sneer  —  Yes  —  no  genius!     Ha!   ha!   ha! 

Dangle  —  A  severe  rogue!  Ha!  ha!  But  you  are  quite  right, 
Sir  Fretful,  never  to  read  such  nonsense. 

Sir  Fretful — To  be  sure, —  for  if  there  is  anything  to  one's 
praise,  it  is  a  foolish  vanity  to  be  gratified  at  it;  and  if  it  is 
abuse — why,  one  is  always  sure  to  hear  of  it  from  one  damned 
good-natured  friend  or  another! 


ROLLA'S  ADDRESS  TO  THE   PERUVIAN   WARRIORS 

From  <  Pizarro  > 

The  scene  represents  the  Temple  of  the  Sun.  The  High  Priest,  Priests, 
and  Virgins  of  the  Sun,  discovered.  A  solemn  march.  Ataliba 
and  the  Peruvian  Warriors  enter  on  one  side ;  on  the  other  Rolla, 
Alonzo,  and  Cora  with  the  Child. 

ATALIBA  —  Welcome,  Alonzo!     \To  Rolla. '\     Kinsman,  thy  hand! 
^     — \To  Cora.]     Blessed  be  the  object  of  the  happy  mother's 
love. 

Cora — May  the  sun  bless  the  father  of  his  people! 

Ataliba  —  In  the  welfare  of  his  children  lives  the  happiness  of 
their  king.     Friends,   what  is  the  temper  of  our  soldiers  ? 

Rolla  —  Such  as  becomes  the  canse  which  they  support;  their 
cry  is,   Victory  or  death!  our  king,   our  country,   and  our  God! 

Ataliba  —  Thou,  Rolla,  in  the  hour  of  peril,  hast  been  wont  to 
animate  the  spirit  of  their  leaders,  ere  we  proceed  to  consecrate 
the  banners  which  thy  valor  knows  so  well  how  to  guard. 

Rolla  —  Yet  never  was  the  hour  of  peril  near,  when  to  inspire 
them  words  were  so  little  needed.  My  brave  associates  —  partners 
of  my  toil,  my  feelings,  and  my  fame!  —  can  Rolla's  words  add 
vigor  to  the  virtuous  energies  which  inspire  your  hearts?  No! 
You  have  judged,  as  I  have,  the  foulness  of  the  crafty  plea  by 
which  these  bold  invaders  would  delude  you.  Your  generous 
spirit  has  compared,  as  mine  has,  the  motives  which,  in  a  war 
like  this,  can  animate  their  minds  and  ours.  They,  by  a  strange 
frenzy  driven,  fight  for  power,  for  plunder,  and  extended  rule: 
we,  for  our  country,  our  altars,  and  our  homes.  They  follow  an 
adventurer  whom  they  fear,  and  obey  a  power  which  they  hate: 
we  serve  a  monarch  whom  we  love  —  a  God  whom  we  adore. 
Whene'er    they  move    in    anger,  desolation    tracks  their  progress! 


13362 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN 


Whene'er  they  "pause  in  amity,  affliction  mourns  their  friendship. 
They  boast  they  come  but  to  improve  our  state,  enlarge  our 
thoughts,  and  free  us  from  the  yoke  of  error!  Yes:  they  will 
give  enlightened  freedom  to  our  minds,  who  are  themselves  the 
slaves  of  passion,  avarice,  and  pride.  They  offer  us  their  protec- 
tion; yes,  such  protection  as  vultures  give  to  lambs  —  covering 
and  devouring  them !  They  call  on  us  to  barter  all  of  good  we 
have  inherited  and  proved,  for  the  desperate  chance  of  something 
better  which  they  promise.  Be  our  plain  answer  this:  —  The 
throne  we  honor  is  the  people's  choice;  the  laws  we  reverence 
are  our  brave  fathers'  legacy;  ths  faith  we  follow  teaches  us  to 
live  in  bonds  of  charity  with  all  mankind,  and  die  with  hope  of 
bliss  beyond  the  grave.  Tell  your  invaders  this;  and  tell  them 
too,  we  seek  no  change;  and  least  of  all,  such  change  as  they 
would  bring  us. 

[Loud  shouts  of  the  Peruvian   Warriors.'] 

Ataliba  \cmbracing  Rolld\  —  Now,  holy  friends,  ever  mindful 
of  these  sacred  truths,  begin  the  sacrifice. 

[A  solemn  procession  commences.  The  Priests  and  Virgins  arrange 
themselves  on  either  side  of  the  altar,  which  the  High  Priest  approaches, 
and  the  solemnity  begins.  The  invocation  of  the  High  Priest  is  follo7ved  by 
the  choruses  of  the  Priests  and  Virgins.  Fire  from  above  lights  upon  the 
altar.      The  whole  assembly  rise,  and  Join  in  the  thanksgivi7ig.\ 

Ataliba  —  Our  offering  is  accepted.  Now  to  arms,  my  friends; 
prepare  for  battle! 


13363 


JOHN   HENRY  SHORTHOUSE 
(1834-1903.) 

IiNETEENTH-CENTURY  mysticisTTi  IS  the  dominant  quality  in  the 
novels  of  John  Henry  Shorthouse.  The  spirit  which  in- 
formed the  Tractarian  movement,  which  produced  *The 
Blessed  Damozel  *  in  poetry  and  <  Dante's  Dream  ^  in  painting,  pro- 
duced in  fiction  <  John  Inglesant^  and  <  The  Cou-ntess  Eve.*  It  is  a 
spirit  not  wholly  free  from  artificiality,  because  it  is  alien  to  the  tem- 
per of  the  times;  yet  it  possesses  fascination  for  those  who  prefer  the 
twilight  passes  of  the  world,  leading  perchance  to  the  stars,  above  the 
electric-lighted  highway  leading  direct  to  a 
city.  It  combines  sensuousness  with  spirit- 
uality, day-dreams  with  keen  knowledge,  the 
Christianity  of  the  ^  Divine  Comedy  ^  with  a 
kind  of  pagan  delight  in  the  offerings  of 
earth. 

<John  Inglesant*  is  the  best  known  of 
Mr.  Shorthouse's  novels:  it  is  also  the  most 
perfect  embodiment  of  this  spirit  of  mysti- 
cism in  fiction.  The  hero,  whose  name  gives 
the  title  to  the  book,  is  a  cavalier  in  the 
court  of  King  Charles  the  First.  There  is  an 
exquisite  aroma  about  his  character:  he  is  a 
gentleman  and  a  saint,  a  courtier  with  the 
soul  of  an  anchorite.  He  adheres  with  scru- 
pulous fidelity  to  the  requirements  of  his  order,  yet  he  is  haunted  with 
visions  of  the  Divine  life :  he  is  a  mystic  and  a  man  of  the  world.  I': 
is  the  character  of  Inglesant  which  perhaps  explains  the  fascination 
of  this  novel  for  a  certain  class  of  modern  readers.  The  present  gen- 
eration are  pre-eminently  children  of  the  world.  Science  has  made 
it  well-nigh  ridiculous  for  men  to  do  anything  but  turn  to  the  best 
advantage  what  is  here  and  now.  So  they  nurse  their  desire  of  the 
impossible  in  secret;  but  they  love  its  embodiment  in  fiction.  John 
Inglesant  is  a  thoroughly  modern  creation.  His  environment  of  Re- 
naissance Italy  and  Cavalier  England  is  due  to  the  tact  of  the  author, 
who  perceived  that  the  setting  of  this  century  for  one  who  sees  vis- 
ions would  be  as  incongruous  in  fiction  as  it  is  in  actual  life.  The 
Rossettis  and  the  Cardinal  Newmans  must  be  placed  in  long-ago 
beautiful  years,  if  they  would  seem  wholly  natural. 


John  H.  Shorthouse 


13364  JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE 

It  is  in  John  Inglesant  that  the  temper  of  the  author  is  most  fully 
expressed;  and  not  of  the  author  only,  but  of  the  poets,  painters,  and 
others  of  his  ilk.  There  is  the  sensitiveness  to  the  loveliness  of 
nature ;  not  the  Wordsworthian  spirit  of  philosophic  detachment  from 
it,  but  a  kind  of  sensuous  union  with  it,  making  it  partaker  both 
with  the  holy  and  unholy  aspirations  of  men.  When  John  Inglesant 
kneels  to  receive  the  sacrament  at  the  church  of  Little  Gidding,  he 
is  conscious  of  the  '■'■  misty  autumn  sunlight  and  the  sweeping  autumn 
wind,^>  as  part  of  the  gracious  influence  surrounding  him.  When 
he  is  tempted  to  ruin  himself  and  another,  he  sees  his  evil  passion 
reflected  in  nature :  — 

«  He  gazed  another  moment  over  the  illumined  forest,  which  seemed  trans- 
figured in  the  moonlight  and  the  stillness  into  an  unreal  landscape  of  the 
dead.  The  poisonous  mists  crept  over  the  tops  of  the  cork-trees,  and  flitted 
across  the  long  vistas  in  spectral  forms,  cowled  and  shrouded  for  the  grave. 
Beneath  the  gloom,  indistinct  figures  seemed  to  glide, —  the  personation  of 
the  miasma  that  made  the  place  so  fatal  to  human  life. 

<<He  turned  to  enter  the  room;  but  even  as  he  turned,  a  sudden  change 
came  over  the  scene.  The  deadly  glamour  of  the  moonlight  faded  suddenly; 
a  calm,  pale  solemn  light  settled  over  the  forest;  the  distant  line  of  hills  shone 
out  distinct  and  clear;  the  evil  mystery  of  the  place  departed  whence  it  came; 
a  fresh  and  cooling  breeze  sprang  up  and  passed  through  the  rustling  wood, 
breathing  pureness  and  life.    The  dayspring  was  at  hand  in  the  Eastern  sky.» 

In  his  other  novels,  ^  Sir  Percival,*  ^The  Countess  Eve,*  ^Little 
Schoolmaster  Mark,*  ^Blanche,  Lady  Falaise,*  Mr.  Shorthouse  makes 
similar  use  of  nature.  It  is  always  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of 
man's  inward  and  spiritual  state.  There  is  the  same  mystical  con- 
ception of  human  dwelling-places,  as  in  a  sense  the  houses  of  the 
soul.  The  beautiful  ducal  house  in  <  Sir  Percival,*  the  Renaissance 
palace  of  the  Duke  of  Umbria  in  <John  Inglesant,*  is  each  express- 
ive of  the  temperament  of  those  who  have  dwelt  therein.  _  Archi- 
tecture, to  the  mystic,  is  perhaps  the  most  significant  of  all  the  arts. 
Shorthouse  makes  use  of  it,  as  much  as  of  nature,  to  embody  the 
mental  moods  of  men.  For  music  and  musicians  he  has  keen  sym- 
pathy. <  The  Countess  Eve  *  is  built  out  of  music ;  the  keen,  wild 
sobbing  music  of  the  violin,  its  tremulous  passion,  its  unutterable 
aspiration.  <  The  Master  of  the  Violin*  is  another  story  of  the  same 
order.  Music  is  constantly  heard  in  ^  John  Inglesant  *  and  in  *  Sir 
Percival.*  Shorthouse  understands  the  value  of  music  as  Wagner 
understood  it, —  as  all  mystics  understand  it.  It  is  the  embodiment 
of  all  the  senses;  it  is  the  embodiment  of  the  soul. 

As  might  be  expected  of  a  novelist  who  dwells  in  the  half-seen 
world,  the  characters  of  Mr.  Shorthouse  are  less  like  human  beings 
than    abstractions.     John    Inglesant   is   more    of    an    ideal    than    of   a 


JOHN    HENRY    SHORTHOUSE  1 3365 

man.  Constance  in  <Sir  PercivaP  is  a  Giotto  woman,— a  pale  prayer 
only  half  clothed  with  humanity.  The  Countess  Eve  is  delicate  and 
unreal;  and  no  force  of  passion  can  give  life  to  her.  Yet  to  be  with 
these  creations  is  to  be  in  noble  company.  The  idealism  of  their 
author  is  inspiring  and  regenerating.  It  is  all  the  more  so  because  it 
is  clothed  in  very  beautiful  literary  form.  The  style  of  <John  Ingle- 
Bant  >  is  exquisitely  fitted  to  the  thought  of  the  book.  Its  passionate 
mysticism,  its  sense  of  the  Unseen,  its  obedience  to  the  Vision,  make 
of  it  a  work  which  could  ill  be  spared  to  an  age  productive  of  Zola. 
Mr.  Shorthouse  was  bom  in  Birmingham,  England,  in  1834.  His 
death  occurred  in  England,  March  4,  1903. 


INGLESANT  VISITS   MR.    FERRAR'S   RELIGIOUS  COMMUNITY 

From  (John  Inglesant> 

IT  WAS  late  in  the  autumn  when  he  made  this  visit,  about  two 
months  before  Mr.  Ferrar's  death.  The  rich  autumn  foliage 
was  lighted  by  the  low  sun,  as  he  rode  through  the  woods 
and  meadows  and  across  the  sluggish  streams  of  Bedford  and 
Huntingdon.  He  slept  at  a  village  a  few  miles  south  of  Little 
Gidding,  and  reached  that  place  early  in  the  day.  It  was  a  soli- 
tary, wooded  place,  with  a  large  manor-house,  and  a  little  church 
close  by.  It  had  been  for  some  time  depopulated,  and  there  were 
no  cottages  nor  houses  near.  The  manor-house  and  church  had 
been  restored  to  perfect  order  by  Mr.  Ferrar;  and  Inglesant 
reached  it  through  a  grove  of  trees  planted  in  walks,  with  lat- 
ticed paths  and  gardens  on  both  sides.  A  brook  crossed  the  road 
at  the  foot  of  the  gentle  ascent  on  which  the  house  was  built. 
He  asked  to  see  Mr.  Ferrar,  and  was  shown  by  a  man-servant 
into  a  fair  spacious  parlor,  where  Mr.  Ferrar  presently  came  to 
him.  Inglesant  was  .disappointed  at  his  appearance,  which  was 
plain  and  not  striking  in  any  way;  but  his  speech  was  able 
and  attractive.  Johnny  apologized  for  his  bold  visit,  telling  him 
how  much  taken  he  had  been  by  his  book,  and  by  what  he  had 
heard  of  him  and  his  family;  and  that  what  he  had  heard  did 
not  interest  him  merely  out  of  curiosity,  as  he  feared  it  might 
have  done  many,  but  out  of  sincere  desire  to  learn  something 
of  the  holy  life  which  doubtless  that  family  led.  To  this  Mr. 
Ferrar  replied  that  he  was  thankful  to  see  any  one  who  came  in 
such  a  spirit;    and   that   several  not  only  of  his  own  friends, — as 


13366  JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE 

Mr.  Crashaw  the  poet, — but  many  young  students  from  the  Uni- 
versity at  Cambridge,  came  to  see  him  in  a  like  spirit;  to  the 
benefit,  he  hoped,  of  both  themselves  and  of  him.  He  said  with 
great  humility,  that  although  on  the  one  hand  very  much  evil 
had  been  spoken  of  him  which  was  not  true,  he  had  no  doubt 
that  on  the  other,  many  things  had  been  said  about  their  holi- 
ness and  the  good  that  they  did  which  went  far  beyond  the  truth. 
For  his  own  part,  he  said  he  had  adopted  that  manner  of  life 
through  having  long  seen  enough  of  the  manners  and  vanities 
of  the  world;  and  holding  them  in  low  esteem,  was  resolved  to 
spend  the  best  of  his  life  in  mortifications  and  devotion,  in  char- 
ity, and  in  constant  preparation  for  death.  That  his  mother,  his 
elder  brother,  his  sisters,  his  nephews  and  nieces,  being  content 
to  lead  this  mortified  life,  they  spent  their  time  in  acts  of  devo- 
tion and  by  doing  such  good  works  as  were  within  their  power, 
—  such  as  keeping  a  school  for  the  children  of  the  next  par- 
ishes, for  teaching  of  whom  he  provided  three  masters  who  lived 
constantly  in  the  house.  That  for  ten  years  they  had  lived  this 
harmless  life,  under  the  care  of  his  mother,  who  had  trained  her 
daughters  and  granddaughters  to  every  good  work:  but  two  years 
ago  they  had  lost  her  by  death,  and  as  his  health  was  very  feeble 
he  did  not  expect  long  to  be  separated  from  her;  but  looked  for- 
ward to  his  departure  with  joy,  being  afraid  of  the  evil  times  he 
saw  approaching. 

When  he  had  said  this,  he  led  Inglesant  into  a  large  hand- 
some room  up-stairs,  where  he  introduced  him  to  his  sister,  Mrs. 
Collet,  and  her  daughters,  who  were  engaged  in  making  those 
curious  books  of  Scripture  Harmonies  which  had  so  pleased  King 
Charles.  These  seven  young  ladies  —  who  formed  the  junior 
part  of  the  Society  of  the  house,  and  were  called  by  the  names 
of  the  chief  virtues,  the  Patient,  the  Cheerful,  the  Affectionate, 
the  Submiss,  the  Obedient,  the  Moderate, -the  Charitable  —  were 
engaged  at  that  moment  in  cutting  out  passages  from  two  Tes- 
taments, which  they  pasted  together  so  neatly  as  to  seem  one 
book,  and  in  such  a  manner  as  to  enable  the  reader  to  follow  the 
narrative  in  all  its  particulars  from  beginning  to  end  without  a 
break,  and  also  to  see  which  of  the  sacred  authors  had  contrib- 
uted any  particular  part. 

Inglesant  told  the  ladies  what  fame  reported  of  the  nuns  of 
Gidding:  of  two  watching  and  praying  all  night;  of  their  canon- 
ical  hours;    of   their   crosses    on    the    outside    and    inside    of   their 


JOHN    HENRY   SHORTHOUSE  I3367 

chapel;  of  an  altar  there  richly  decked  with  plate,  tapestry,  and 
tapers;  of  their  adoration  and  genuflexions  at  their  entering.  He 
told  Mr.  Ferrar  that  his  object  in  visiting  him  was  chiefly  to 
know  his  opinion  of  the  papists  and  their  religion;  as  having 
been  bred  among  them  himself  and  being  very  nearly  one  of 
them,  he  was  anxious  to  know  the  opinions  of  one  who  was  said 
to  hold  many  of  their  doctrines  without  joining  them  or  approv- 
ing them.  Mr.  Ferrar  appeared  at  first  shy  of  speaking:  but 
being  apparently  convinced  of  the  young  man's  sincerity,  and 
that  he  was  not  an  enemy  in  disguise,  he  conversed  very  freely 
with  him  for  some  time,  speaking  much  of  the  love  of  God,  and 
of  the.  vanity  of  worldly  things;  of  his  dear  friend  Mr.  George 
Herbert,  and  of  his  saintly  life;  of  the  confused  and  troublesome 
life  he  had  formerly  led,  and  of  the  great  peace  and  satisfaction 
which  he  had  found  since  he  had  left  the  world  and  betaken 
himself  to  that  retired  and  religious  life.  That  as  regards  the 
papists,  his  translating  Valdessa's  book  was  a  proof  that  he  knew 
that  among  them,  as  among  all  people,  there  were  many  true 
worshipers  of  Jesus,  being  drawn  by  the  blessed  sacrament  to 
follow  him  in  the  spiritual  and  divine  life;  and  that  there  were 
many  things  in  that  book  similar  to  the  mystical  religion  of 
which  Inglesant  spoke,  which  his  dear  friend  Mr.  George  Herbert 
had  disapproved,  as  exalting  the  inward  spiritual  life  above  the 
foundation  of  holy  Scripture^  that  it  was  not  for  him,  who  was 
only  a  deacon  in  the  church,  to  pronounce  any  opinion  on  so  dif- 
ficult a  point,  and  that  he  had  printed  all  Mr  Herbert's  notes  in 
his  book,  without  comment  of  his  own;  that  though  he  was  thus 
unwilling  to  give  his  own  judgment,  he  certainly  believed  that 
this  inward  spiritual  life  was  open  to  all  men,  and  recommended 
Inglesant  to  continue  his  endeavors  after  it,  seeking  it  chiefly 
in  the  holy  sacrament  accompanied  with  mortification  and  confes- 
sion. 

While  they  were  thus  talking,  the  hour  of  evening  prayer 
arrived,  and  Mr.  Ferrar  invited  Johnny  to  accompany  him  to  the 
church;  which  he  gladly  did,  being  very  much  attracted  by  the 
evident  holiness  which  pervaded  Mr.  Ferrar's  talk  and  manner. 
The  family  proceeded  to  church  in  procession,  Mr.  Ferrar  and 
Inglesant  walking  first.  The  church  was  kept  in  great  order; 
the  altar  being  placed  upon  a  raised  platform  at  the  east  end, 
and  covered  with  tapestry  stretching  over  the  floor  all  round  it, 
and  adorned  with  plate  and  tapers.     Mr.  Ferrar  bowed  with  great 


12368  JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE 

reverence  several  times  on  approaching  the  altar,  and  directed 
Inglesant  to  sit  in  a  stalled  seat  opposite  the  reading-pew,  from 
which  he  said  the  evening  prayer.  The  men  of  the  family  knelt 
on  the  raised  step  before  the  altar,  the  ladies  and  servants  sitting 
in  the  body  of  the  church.  The  church  was  very  sweet,  being 
decked  with  flowers  and  herbs,  and  the  soft  autumn  light  rested 
over  it.  From  the  seat  where  Inglesant  knelt,  he  could  see  the 
faces  of  the  girls  as  they  bent  over  their  books  at  prayers.  They 
were  all  in  black,  except  one,  who  wore  a  friar's  gray  gown;  this 
was  the  one  who  was  called  the  Patient,  as  Inglesant  had  been 
told  in  the  house,  and  the  singularity  of  her  dress  attracted  his 
eye  towards  her  during  the  prayers.  The  whole  scene,  strange 
and  romantic  as  it  appeared  to  him, —  the  devout  and  serious 
manner  of  the  worshipers,  very  different  from  much  that  was 
common  in  churches  at  that  day,  and  the  abstracted  and  devout 
look  upon  the  faces  of  the  girls, —  struck  his  fancy,  so  liable 
to  such  influences  and  so  long  trained  to  welcome  them ;  and  he 
could  not  keep  his  eyes  from  this  one  face,  from  which  the  gray 
hood  was  partly  thrown  back.  It  was  a  passive  face,  with  well- 
cut  delicate  features  and  large  and  quiet  eyes. 

Prayers  being  over,  the  ladies  saluted  Inglesant  from  a  dis- 
tance, and  left  the  church  with  the  rest,  in  the  same  order  as 
they  had  come,  leaving  Mr.  Ferrar  and  Johnny  alone.  They  re- 
mained some  time  discoursing  on  worship  and  church  ceremonies, 
and  then  returned  to  the  house.  It  was  now  late,  and  Mr.  Ferrar, 
who  was  evidently  much  pleased  with  his  guest,  invited  him  to 
stay  the  night,  and  even  extended  his  hospitality  by  asking  him 
to  stay  over  the  next,  which  was  Saturday,  and  the  Sunday;  upon 
which,  as  it  was  the  first  Sunday  in  the  month,  the  holy  sacra- 
ment would  be  administered,  and  several  of  Mr.  Ferrar's  friends 
from  Cambridge  would  come  over  and  partake  of  it,  and  to  pass 
the  night  and  day  in  prayer  and  acts  of  devotion.  To  this  propo- 
sition Inglesant  gladly  consented;  the  whole  proceeding  appearing 
to  him  full  of  interest  and  attraction.  Soon  after  they  returned 
to  the  house,  supper  was  served,  all  the  family  sitting  down  to- 
gether at  a  long  table  in  the  hall.  During  supper  some  portion 
of  Fox's  *  Book  of  the  Martyrs*  was  read  aloud.  Afterwards  two 
hours  were  permitted  for  diversion,  during  which  all  were  allowed 
to  do  as  they  pleased. 

The  young  ladies,  having  found  out  that  Inglesant  was  a 
queen's   page,  were  very  curious  to  hear  of  the   court  and  royal 


JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE  13369 

family  from  him;  which  innocent  request  Mr.  Ferrar  encouraged, 
and  joined  in  himself.  One  reason  of  the  success  with  which  his 
mother  and  he  had  ruled  this  household  appears  to  have  been  his 
skill  in  interesting  and  attracting  all  its  inmates  by  the  variety 
and  pleasant  character  of  their  occupations.  He  was  also  much 
interested  himself  in  what  Johnny  told  him, —  for  in  this  se- 
cluded family,  themselves  accustomed  to  prudence,  Inglesant  felt 
he  might  safely  speak  of  many  things  upon  which  he  was  gen- 
erally silent:  and  after  prayers,  when  the  family  were  retired  to 
their  several  rooms,  Mr.  Ferrar  remained  with  him  some  time, 
while  Johnny  related  to  him  the  aspect  of  religious  parties  at 
the  moment;  and  particularly  all  that  he  could  tell,  without  vio- 
lating confidence,  of  the  papists  and  of  his  friend  the  Jesuit. 

The  next  morning  they  rose  at  four;  though  two  of  the  fam- 
ily had  been  at  prayer  all  night,  and  did  not  go  to  rest  till  the 
others  rose.  They  went  into  the  oratory  in  the  house  itself  to 
prayers,  for  they  kept  six  times  of  prayer  during  the  day.  At 
six  they  said  the  psalms  of  the  hour, — for  every  hour  had  its 
appropriate  psalms, —  and  at  half  past  six  went  to  church  for 
matins.  When  they  returned  at  seven  o'clock,  they  said  the 
psalm  of  the  hour,  sang  a  short  hymn,  and  went  to  breakfast. 
After  breakfast,  when  the  younger  members  of  the  family  were 
at  their  studies,  Mr.  Ferrar  took  Inglesant  to  the  school  where 
all  the  children  in  the  neighborhood  were  permitted  to  come. 
At  eleven  they  went  to  dinner;  and  after  dinner  there  was  no 
settled  occupation  till  one,  every  one  being  allowed  to  amuse 
himself  as  he  chose.  The  young  ladies  had  been  trained  not 
only  to  superintend  the  house,  but  to  wait  on  any  sick  persons 
in  the  neighborhood  who  came  to  the  house  at  certain  times  for 
assistance,  and  to  dress  the  wounds  of  those  who  were  hurt,  in 
order  to  give  them  readiness  and  skill  in  this  employment,  and 
to  habituate  them  to  the  virtues  of  humility  and  tenderness  of 
heart.  A  large  room  was  set  apart  for  this  purpose,  where  Mr. 
Ferrar  had  instructed  them  in  the  necessary  skill;  having  been 
himself  Physic  Fellow  at  Clare  Hall  in  Cambridge,  and  under 
the  celebrated  professors  at  Padua,  in  Italy.  This  room  Inglesant 
requested  to  see,  thinking  that  he  should  in  this  way  also  see 
something  of  and  be  able  to  speak  to  the  young  ladies,  whose 
acquaintance  he  had  hitherto  not  had  much  opportunity  of  culti- 
vating. Mr.  Ferrar  told  his  nephew  to  show  it  him  —  voung 
Nicholas  Ferrar,  a  young  man  of  extraordinary  skill  in  languages, 


,-27o  JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE 

who  was  afterwards  iniroduced  to  the  King  and  Prince  Charles, 
some  time  before  his  early  death. 

When  they  entered  the  room,  Inglesant  was  delighted  to  find 
that  the  only  member  of  the  family  there  was  the  young  lady 
in  the  gray  friar's  habit,  whose  face  had  attracted  him  so  much 
in  church.  She  was  listening  to  the  long  tiresome  tale  of  an  old 
woman;  following  the  example  of  George  Herbert,  who  thought 
on  a  similar  occasion,  that  ^*  it  was  some  relief  to  a  poor  body  to 
be  heard  with  patience.  ^^  Johnny,  who  in  spite  of  his  Jesuit- 
ical and  court  training  was  naturally  modest,  and  whose  sense 
of  religion  made  him  perfectly  well-bred,  accosted  the  young  lady 
very  seriously,  and  expressed  his  gratitude  at  having  been  per- 
mitted to  stay  and  see  so  many  excellent  and  improving  things 
as  that  family  had  to  show.  The  liking  which  the  head  of  the 
house  had  evidently  taken  for  Inglesant  disposed  the  younger 
members  in  his  favor,  and  the  young  lady  answered  him  simply 
and  unaffectedly,  but  with  manifest  pleasure. 

Inglesant  inquired  concerning  the  assumed  names  of  the  sis- 
ters, and  how  they  sustained  their  respective  qualities,  and  what 
exercises  suited  to  these  qualities  they  had  to  perform.  She 
replied  that  they  had  exercises,  or  discourses,  which  they  per- 
formed at  the  great  festivals  of  the  year,  Christmas  and  Easter; 
and  which  were  composed  with  reference  to  their  several  quali- 
ties. All  of  these,  except  her  own,  were  enlivened  by  hymns 
and  odes  composed  by  Mr.  Ferrar,  and  set  to  music  by  the  music- 
master  of  the  family,  who  accompanied  the  voices  with  the  viol 
or  the  lute.  But  her  own,  she  said,  had  never  any  music  or 
poetry  connected  with  it:  it  was  always  of  a  very  serious  turn, 
and  much  longer  than  any  other,  and  had  not  any  historical 
anecdote  or  fable  interwoven  with  it;  the  contrivance  being  to 
exercise  that  virtue  to  which  she  was  devoted.  Inglesant  asked 
her  with  pity  if  this  was  not  very  hard  treatment;  and  she  only 
replied,  with  a  smile,  that  she  had  the  enjoyment  of  all  the  lively 
performances  of  the  others. 

He  asked  her  whether  they  looked  forward  to  passing  all  their 
lives  in  this  manner,  or  whether  they  allowed  the  possibility  of 
any  change;  and  if  she  had  entirely  lost  her  own  name  in  her 
assumed  one,  or  whether  he  might  presume  to  ask  it,  that  he 
might  have  wherewithal  to  remember  her  by,  as  he  surely  should 
as  long  as  he  had  life.  She  said  her  name  was  Mary  Collet; 
and,  that  as  to  his  former  question,  two  of  her  sisters  had  had.  at 


JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE  13371 

one  time,  a  great  desire  to  become  veiled  virgins, —  to  take 
upon  them  a  vow  of  perpetual  chastity,  with  the  solemnity  of  a 
bishop's  blessing  and  ratification,  but  on  going  to  Bishop  Will- 
iams he  had  discouraged  and  at  last  dissuaded  them  from  it. 

Inglesant  and  the  young  lady  remained  talking  in  this  way 
for  some  time,  young  Nicholas  Ferrar  having  left  them ;  but 
at  last  she  excused  herself  from  staying  any  longer,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  let  her  go.  He  ventured  to  say  that  he  hoped  they 
would  remember  him;  that  he  was  utterly  ignorant  of  the  future 
that  lay  before  him,  but  that  whatever  fate  awaited  him,  he 
should  never  forget  the  "Nuns  of  Gidding^'  and  their  religious 
life.  She  replied  that  they  would  certainly  remember  him,  as 
they  did  all  their  acquaintances,  in  their  daily  prayer;  especially 
as  she  had  seldom  seen  her  uncle  so  pleased  with  a  stranger  as 
he  had  been  with  him.  With  these  compliments  they  parted,  and 
Inglesant  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where  more  visitors  had 
arrived. 

In  the  afternoon  there  came  from  Cambridge  Mr.  Crashaw 
the  poet,  of  Peterhouse, —  who  afterwards  went  over  to  the  pap- 
ists, and  died  canon  of  Loretto, — and  several  gentlemen,  under- 
graduates of  Cambridge,  to  spend  the  Sunday  at  Gidding,  being 
the  first  Sunday  of  the  month.  Mr.  Crashaw,  when  Inglesant  was 
introduced  to  him  as  one  of  the  queen's  pages,  finding  that  -he 
was  acquainted  with  many  Roman  Catholics,  was  very  friendly, 
and  conversed  with  him  apart.  He  said  he  conceived  a  great 
admiration  for  the  devout  lives  of  the  Catholic  saints,  and  of  the 
government  and  discipline  of  the  Catholic  Church ;  and  that  he 
feared  that  the  English  Church  had  not  sufficient  authority  to 
resist  the  spread  of  Presbyterianism,  in  which  case  he  saw  no 
safety  except  in  returning  to  the  communion  of  Rome.  Walking 
up  and  down  the  garden  paths,  after  evening  prayers  in  church, 
he  spoke  a  great  deal  on  this  subject,  and  on  the  beauty  of  a 
retired  religious  life;  saying  that  here  at  Little  Gidding  and  at 
Little  St.  Marie's  Church,  near  to  Peterhouse,  he  had  passed  the 
most  blissful  moments  of  his  life,  watching  at  midnight  in  prayer 
and  meditation. 

That  night  Mr.  Crashaw,  Inglesant,  and  one  or  two  others, 
remained  in  the  church  from  nine  till  twelve,  during  which  time 
they  said  over  the  whole  Book  of  Psalms  in  the  way  of  antiph- 
ony,  one  repeating  one  verse  and  the  rest  the  other.  The  time 
of  their  watch  being  ended  they  returned  to  the  house,  went  to 


13372  JOHN    HENRY  SHORTHOUSE 

Mr.  Ferrar's  door  and  bade  him  good-morrow,  leaving  a  lighted 
candle  for  him.  They  then  went  to  bed;  but  Mr.  Ferrar  arose, 
according  to  the  passage  of  Scripture  ^*At  midnight  I  will  arise 
and  give  thanks,**  and  went  into  the  church,  where  he  betook 
himself  to  religious  meditation. 

Early  on  the  Sunday -morning  the  family  were  astir  and  said 
prayers  in  the  oratory.  After  breakfast  many  people  from  the 
country  around,  and  more  than  a  hundred  children,  came  in. 
These  children  were  called  the  Psalm  children,  and  were  regu- 
larly trained  to  repeat  the  Psalter,  and  the  best  voices  among 
them  to  assist  in  the  service  on  Sundays.  They  came  in  every 
Sunday,  and  according  to  the  proficiency  of  each  were  presented 
with  a  small  piece  of  money,  and  the  whole  number  entertained 
with  a  dinner  after  church.  The  church  was  crowded  at  the 
morning  service  before  the  sacrament.  The  service  was  beau- 
tifully sung,  the  whole  family  taking  the  greatest  delight  in 
church  music,  and  many  of  the  gentlemen  from  Cambridge  being 
amateurs.  The  sacrament  was  administered  with  the  greatest 
devotion  and  solemnity.  Impressed  as  he  had  been  with  the 
occupation  of  the  preceding  day  and  night,  and  his  mind  excited 
with  watching  and  want  of  sleep  and  with  the  exquisite  strains 
of  the  music,  the  effect  upon  Inglesant's  imaginative  nature  was 
excessive. 

Above  the  altar,  which  was  profusely  bedecked  with  flowers, 
the  antique  glass  of  the  east  window,  which  had  been  carefully 
repaired,  contained  a  figure  of  the  Savior,  of  an  early  and  se- 
vere type.  The  form  was  gracious  and  yet  commanding,  having 
a  brilliant  halo  round  the  head,  and  being  clothed  in  a  long 
and  apparently  seainless  coat;  the  two  forefingers  of  the  right 
hand  were  held  up  to  bless.  Kneeling  upon  the  half-pace,  as 
he  received  the  sacred  bread  and  tasted  the  holy  wine,  this  gra- 
cious figure  entered  into  Inglesant's  soul ;  and  stillness  and  peace 
unspeakable,  and  life,  and  light,  and  sweetness,  filled  his  mind. 
He  was  lost  in  a  sense  of  rapture;  and  earth  and  all  that  sur- 
rounded him  faded  away.  When  he  returned  a  little  to  himself, 
kneeling  in  his  seat  in  the  church,  he  thought  that  at  no  period 
of  his  life,  however  extended,  should  he  ever  forget  that  morn- 
ing, or  lose  the  sense  and  feeling  of  that  touching  scene,  of 
that  gracious  figure  over  the  altar,  of  the  bowed  and  kneeling 
figures,  of  the  misty  autumn  sunlight  and  the  sweeping  autumn 
wind.      Heaven   itself   seemed   to   have   opened   to   him,   and   one 


JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE  13373 

fairer  than   the   fairest  of  the  angelic   hosts  to  have  come  down 
to  earth. 

After  the  service,  the  family  and  all  the  visitors  returned  to 
the  mansion  house  in  the  order  in  which  they  had  come,  and  the 
Psalm  children  were  entertained  with  a  dinner  in  the  great  hall; 
all  the  family  and  visitors  came  in  to  see  them  served,  and  Mrs. 
Collet,  as  her  mother  had  "always  done,  placed  the  first  dish  on 
the  table  herself  to  give  an  example  of  humility.  Grace  having 
been  said,  the  bell  rang  for  the  dinner  of  the  family,  who,  together 
with  the  visitors,  repaired  to  the  great  dining-room,  and  stood  in 
order  round  the  table.  While  the  dinner  was  being  served,  they 
sang  a  hymn  accompanied  by  the  organ  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
room.  Then  grace  was  said  by  the  priest  who  had  celebrated 
the  communion,  and  they  sat  down.  All  the  servants  who  had 
received  the  sacrament  that  day  sat  at  table  with  the  rest.  Dur- 
ing dinner,  one  of  the  young  people  whose  turn  it  was  read  a 
chapter  from  the  Bible;  and  when  that  was  finished,  conversa- 
tion was  allowed, —  Mr.  Ferrar  and  some  of  the  other  gentlemen 
endeavoring  to  make  it  of  a  character  suitable  to  the  day,  and 
to  the  service  they  had  just  taken  part  in.  After  dinner  they 
went  to  church  again  for  evening  prayer;  between  which  service 
and  supper,  Inglesant  had  some  talk  with  Mr.  Ferrar  concerning 
the  papists,  and  Mr.  Crashaw's  opinion  of  them. 

**  I  ought  to  be  a  fit  person  to  advise  you,  ^^  said  Mr.  Ferrar 
with  a  melancholy  smile,  "  for  I  am  myself,  as  it  were,  crushed 
between  the  upper  and  nether  millstone  of  contrary  reports;  for 
I  suffer  equal  obloquy  —  and  no  martyrdom  is  worse  than  that  of 
continual  obloquy  —  both  for  being  a  papist  and  a  Puritan.  You 
will  suppose  there  must  be  some  strong  reason  why  I,  who  value 
so  many  things  among  the  papists  so  much,  have  not  joined  them 
myself.  I  should  probably  have  escaped  much  violent  invective 
if  I  had  done  so.  You  are  very  young,  and  are  placed  where 
you  can  see  and  judge  of  both  parties.  You  possess  sufficient 
Insight  to  try  the  spirits,  whether  they  be  of  God.  Be  not  hasty 
to  decide;  and  before  you  decide  to  join  the  Romish  communion, 
make  a  tour  abroad,  and  if  you  can,  go  to  Rome  itself.  When  I 
was  in  Italy  and  Spain,  I  made  all  the  inquiries  and  researches 
I  could.  I  bought  many  scarce  and  valuable  books  in  the  lan- 
guages of  those  countries,  in  collecting  which  I  had  a  principal 
eye  to  those  which  treated  on  the  subjects  of  spiritual  life,  devo- 
tion, and  religious  retirement;  but  the  result  of  all  was  that  1 
am   now,  and    I    shall   die, —  as    I   believe   and   hope   shortly, —  in 


j^--,  JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE 

the  commimion  of  the  English  Church.  This  day,  as  I  believe, 
the  blessed  sacrament  has  been  in  the  church  before  our  eyes; 
and  what  can  you  or   I   desire   more  ?  ** 

The  next  morning  before  Inglesant  left,  Mr.  Ferrar  showed 
him  his  foreign  collections,  his  great  treasure  of  rarities  and  of 
prints  of  the  best  masters  of  that  time,  mostly  relative  to  his- 
torical passages  of  the  Old  and  Nisw  Testaments.  Inglesant 
dined  with  the  family,  of  whom  he  took  leave  with  a  full  heart; 
saluting  the  ladies  with  the  pleasant  familiarity  which  the  man- 
ners of  the  time  permitted.  Mr.  Ferrar  went  with  him  to  the 
borders  of  the  parish,  and  gave  him  his  blessing.  The}^  never 
saw  each  other  again,  for  two  months  afterwards  Nicholas  Ferrar 
was  in  his  grave. 


THE   VISIT   TO   THE   ASTROLOGER 

From  <John  Inglesant  > 

AFTER  two  or  three  days,  Eustace  [Inglesant]  told  his  brothet 
one  morning  that  he  was  ready  to  go  into  the  West;  but 
before  starting,  he  said  he  wished  Johnny  to  accompany 
him  to  a  famous  astrologer  in  Lambeth  Marsh,  to  whom  already 
he  had  shown  the  horoscope,  and  who  had  appointed  a  meeting 
that  night  to  give  his  answer,  and  who  had  also  promised  to  con- 
sult a  crystal  as  an  additional  means  of  obtaining  information  of 
the  future. 

Accordingly,  late  in  the  afternoon,  they  took  a  wherry  at  the 
Temple  Stairs,  and  were  ferried  over  to  Lambeth  Marsh,  a  wide 
extent  of  level  ground  between  Southwark  and  the  •  Bishop's 
Palace,  on  which  only  a  few  straggling  houses  had  been  built. 
The  evening  was  dark  and  foggy,  and  a  cold  wind  swept  across 
the  marsh,  making  them  wrap  their  short  cloaks  closely  about 
them.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  see  more  than  a  yard  or  two 
before  them;  and  they  would  probably  have  found  great  difficulty 
in  finding  the  wizard's  house,  had  not  a  boy  with  a  lantern  met 
them  a  few  paces  from  the  river,  who  inquired  if  they  were 
seeking  the  astrologer.  This  was  the  wizard's  own  boy,  whom, 
with  considerable  worldly  prudence  at  any  rate,  he  had  dis- 
patched to  find  his  clients  and  bring  them  to  the  house.  The 
boy  brought  them  into  a  long  low  room,  with  very  little  furni- 
ture  in    it,   a   small    table   at   the    upper   end,  with    a  large    chair 


JOHN    HENRY   SHORTHOUSE  13375 

behind  it,  and  three  or  four  high-backed  chairs  placed  along  the 
wall.  On  the  floor,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  was  a  large  double 
circle;  but  there  were  no  figures  or  signs  of  any  kind  about  it. 
On  the  table  was  a  long  thin  rod.  A  lamp  which  hung  from  the 
roof  over  the  table  cast  a  faint  light  about  the  room,  and  a  bra- 
zier of  lighted  coals  stood  in  the  chimney. 

The  astrologer  soon  entered  the  room,  with  the  horoscope 
Eustace  had  left  with  him  in  his  hand.  He  was  a  fine-looking 
man,  with  a  serious  and  lofty  expression  of  face,  dressed  in  a 
I  black  gown,  with  the  square  cap  of  a  divine,  and  a  fur  hood  or 
tippet.  He  bowed  courteously  to  the  gentlemen,  who  saluted  him 
with  great  respect.  His  manner  was  coldest  to  John  Inglesant, 
whom  he  probably  regarded  with  suspicion  as  an  amateur.  He 
however  acknowledged  that  Inglesant's  criticisms  on  the  horo- 
scope were  correct;  but  pointed  out  to  him  that  in  his  own  read- 
ing of  it  many  of  the  aspects  were  very  adverse.  John  Inglesant 
knew  this,  though  he  had  chosen  to  conceal  it  from  his  brother. 
The  astrologer  then  informed  them  that  he  had  drawn  out  a 
scheme  of  the  heavens  himself  at  the  moment  when  first  con- 
sulted by  Eustace;  and  that,  in  quite  different  ways  and  by  very 
different  aspects,  much  the  same  result  had  been  arrived  at.  <*As, 
however,**  he  went  on  to  say,  "the  whole  question  is  to  some 
extent  vitiated  by  the  suspicion  of  foul  play,  and  it  will  be 
impossible  for  any  of  us  to  free  our  minds  entirely  from  these 
suspicions,  I  do  not  advise  any  farther .  inquiry;  but  I  propose 
that  you  should  consult  a  consecrated  beryl  or  crystal,  a  mode  of 
inquiry  far  more  high  and  certain  than  astrology, —  so  much  so, 
indeed,  that  I  will  seriously  confess  to  you  that  I  use  the  latter 
but  as  the  countenance  and  blind;  but  this  search  in  the  crystal 
is  by  the  help  of  the  blessed  spirits,  and  is  open  only  to  the 
pure  from  sin,   and  to  men  of  piety,  humility,  and  charity.** 

As  he  said  these  words,  he  produced  from  the  folds  of  his 
gown  a  large  crystal  or  polished  stone,  set  in  a  circle  of  gold, 
supported  by  a  silver  stand.  Round  the  circle  were  engraved 
the  names  of  angels.  He  placed  this  upon  the  table,  and  <:on- 
tinued :  — 

**  We  must  pray  to  God  that  he  will  vouchsafe  us  some 
insight  into  this  precious  stone:  for  it  is  a  solemn  and  serious 
matter  upon  which  we  are,  second  only  to  that  of  communication 
with  the  angelical  creatures  themselves;  which  indeed  is  v^ouch- 
safed  to  some,  but  only  to  those  of  the  greatest  piety,  to  which 


oo 


y(3  JOHN    HENRY    SHORTHOUSE 


we    may  not  aspire.     Therefore   let   us  kneel   down  and  humbly 
pray  to  God.  *^ 

They  all  knelt;  and  the  adept,  commencing  with  the  Prayer 
Book  collect  for  the  festival  of  St.  Michael,  recited  several  other 
prayers,  all  for  extreme  and  spotless  purity  of  life. 

He  then  rose,  the  two  others  continuing  on  their  knees,  and 
struck  a  small  bell,  upon  which  the  boy  whom  they  had  before 
seen  entered  the  room  by  a  concealed  door  in  the  wainscot.  He 
was  a  pretty  boy,  with  a  fair  and  clean  skin,  and  was  dressed 
in  a  surplice  similar  to  those  worn  by  choristers.  He  took  up  a 
position  by  the  crystal,  and  waited  his  master's  orders. 

<*I  have  said,"  continued  the  adept,  "that  these  visions  can 
be  seen  only  by  the  pure,  and  by  those  who,  by  long  and  intense 
looking  into  the  spiritual  world,  have  at  last  penetrated  somewhat 
mto  its  gloom.  I  have  found  these  mostly  to  be  plain  and  sim- 
ple people,  of  an  earnest  faith, —  country  people,  grave-diggers, 
and  those  employed  to  shroud  the  dead,  and  who  are  accustomed 
to  think  much  upon  objects  connected  with  death.  This  boy  is 
the  child  of  the  sexton  of  Lambeth  Church,  who  is  himself  a 
godly  man.     Let  us  pray  to  God." 

Upon  this  he  knelt  down  again  and  remained  for  some  time 
engaged  in  silent  prayer.  He  then  rose  and  directed  the  boy  to 
look  into  the  crystal,  saying,  "One  of  these  gentlemen  desires 
news  of  his  wife." 

The  boy  looked  intentlv  into  the  crystal  for  some  moments, 
and  then  said,  speaking  in  a  measured  and  low  voice:  — 

"  I  see  a  great  room,  in  which  there  is  a  bed  with  rich  hang- 
ings; pendent  from  the  ceiling  is  a  silver  lamp.  A  tall  dark 
man,  with  long  hair,  and  a  dagger  in  his  belt,  is  bending,  over 
the  bed  with  a  cup  in  his  hand." 

"It  is  my  wife's  room,"  said  Eustace  in  a  whisper,  "and  it  is 
no  doubt  the  Italian:  he  is  tall  and  dark." 

The  boy  continued  to  xook  for  some  time  into  the  crystal,  but 
said  nothing;  then  he  turned  to  his  master  and  said,  "I  can  see 
nothing;  some  one  more  near  to  this  gentleman  must  look;  this 
other  gentleman,"  he  said  suddenly,  and  turning  to  John  Ingle- 
sant,  "if  he  looks,  will  be  aole  to  see." 

The  astrologer  started.  "Ah ! "  he  said,  "  why  do  you  say 
that,  boy?" 

"I  can  tell  who  will  see  aught  in  the  crystal,  and  who  will 
not,"  replied  the  boy:  "this  gentleman  will  see." 


JOHN    HENRY   SHORTHOUSE  13377 

The  astrologer  seemed  surprised  and  skeptical,  but  he  made  a 
sign  to  Inglesant  to  rise  from  his  knees,  and  to  take  his  place  by 
the  crystal. 

He  did  so,  and  looked  steadily  into  it  for  some  seconds;  then 
he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  can  see  nothing,  *^  he  said. 

«  Nothing !  '*  said  the  boy :  <<  can  you  see  nothing  ?  ^* 

"  No.     I  see  clouds  and  mist.  ^^ 

"You  have  been  engaged,"  said  the  boy,  "in  something  that 
was  not  good  —  something  that  was  not  true ;  and  it  has  dimmed 
the  crystal  sight.  Look  steadily,  and  if  it  is  as  I  think,  that  your 
motive  was  not  false,  you  will  see  more." 

Inglesant  looked  again;  and  in  a  moment  or  two  gave  a  start, 
saying, — "The  mist  is  breaking!  I  see;  —  I  see  a  large  room,  with 
a  chimney  of  carved  stone,  and  a  high  window  at  the  end;  in  the 
window  and  on  the  carved  stone  is  the  same  coat  many  times 
repeated, —  three  running  greyhounds  proper,  on  a  field  vert." 

"I  know  the  room,"  said  Eustace:  "it  is  the  inn  parlor  at 
Mintern,  not  six  miles  from  Oulton.  It  was  the  manor  of  the 
Vinings  before  the  wars,  but  is  now  an  inn;  that  was  their  coat." 

"  Do  you  see  aught  else  ? "  said  the  adept. 

Inglesant  gave  a  long  look;  then  he  stepped  back,  and  gazed 
at  the  astrologer,  and  from  him  to  his  brother,  with  a  faltering 
and  ashy  look. 

"  I  see  a  man's  figure  lie  before  the  hearth,  and  the  hearth- 
stone is  stained,  as  if  with  blood.     Eustace,  it  is  either  you  or  I ! " 

"Look  again,"  said  the  adept  eagerly,  "look  again!" 

"  I  will  look  no  more ! "  said  Inglesant  fiercely ;  "  this  is  the 
work  of  a  fiend,  to  lure  men  to  madness  or  despair!" 

As  he  spoke,  a  blast  of  wind  —  sudden  and  strong  —  swept 
through  the  room;  the  lamp  burned  dim;  and  the  fire  in  the 
brazier  went  out.  A  deathly  coldness  filled  the  apartment,  and 
the  floor  and  the  walls  seemed  to  heave  and  shake.  A  loud 
whisper,  or  muffled  cry,  seemed  to  fill  the  air;  and  a  terrible  awe 
struck  at  the  hearts  of  the  young  men.  Seizing  the  rod  from 
the  table,  the  adept  assumed  a  commanding  attitude,  and  waved 
it  to  and  fro  in  the  air;  gradually  the  wind  ceased,  the  dread 
coldness  abated,  and  the  fire  burned  again  of  its  own  accord. 
The  adept  gazed  at  Inglesant  with  a  stern  and  set  look. 

"  You  are  of  a  strange  spirit,  young  sir, "  he  said :  "  pure  in 
heart  enough  to  see  things  which  many  holy  men  have  desired 


12378  JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE 

in  vain  to  see;  and  yet  so  wild  and  rebellious  as  to  anger  the 
blessed  spirits  with  your  self-will  and  perverse  thoughts.  You 
will  suffer  fatal  loss,  both  here  and  hereafter,  if  you  learn  not  to 
give  up  your  own  will,  and  your  own  fancies,  before  the  heavenly 
will  and  call.*^ 

Inglesant  stared  at  the  man  in  silence.  His  words  seemed 
to  him  to  mean  far  more  than  perhaps  he  himself  knew.  They 
seemed  to  come  into  his  mind,  softened  with  anxiety  for  his 
brother,  and  shaken  by  these  terrible  events,  with  the  light  of  , 
a  revelation.  Surely  this  was  the  true  secret  of  his  wasted  life, 
however  strange  might  be  the  place  and  action  which  revealed 
it  to  him.  Whatever  he  might  think  afterwards  of  this  night, 
it  might  easily  stand  to  him  as  an  allegory  of  his  own  spirit,  set 
down  before  him  in  a  figure.  Doubtless  he  was  perverse  and 
headstrong  under  the  pressure  of  the  Divine  Hand;  doubtless 
he  had  followed  his  own  notions  rather  than  the  voice  of  the 
inward  monitor  he  professed  to  hear;  henceforth,  surely,  he  would 
give  himself  up  more  entirely  to  the  heavenly  voice. 

Eustace  appeared  to  have  seen  enough  of  the  future,  and  to 
be  anxious  to  go.  He  left  a  purse  of  gold  upon  the  wizard's 
table;    and  hurried  his  brother  to   take  his  leave. 

Outside,  the  air  was  perfectly  still;  a  thick  motionless  fog 
hung  over  the  marsh  and  the  river;  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred. 

"  That  was  a  strange  wind  that  swept  by  as  you  refused  to 
look,^*  said  Eustace  to  his  brother:  "do  you  really  think  the  spir- 
its were  near,  and  were  incensed  ? " 

Inglesant  did  not  reply:  he  was  thinking  of  another  spirit  than 
that  the  wizard  had  evoked. 

They  made  their  way  through  the  fog  to  Lambeth,  and  took 
boat  again  to  the  Temple  Stairs. 


JOHN    INGLESANT   MAKES   A  JOURNEY,  AND   MEETS  HIS 
BROTHER'S   MURDERER 

From  <John  Inglesant  > 

IT   WAS  long  before   sunrise  that   Inglesant  set  out,  accompanied 
by  his  train,  hoping  to  cross  the   mountains  before  the  heat 
began.     His  company   consisted  of   several  men-at-arms,  with 
their    grooms    and    horse-boys,    and    the    Austrian    page.      They 
ascended    the    mountains    in    the   earlier   part   of   the   night,    and 


I 


JOHN  HENRY  SHORTHOUSE  13379 

towards  dawn  they  reached  a  flat  plain.  The  night  had  been 
too  dark  to  allow  them  to  see  the  steep  and  narrow  defiles,  full 
of  oaks  and  beech;  and  as  they  passed  over  the  dreary  plain  in 
the  white  mist,  their  figures  seemed  vast  and  indistinct  in  the 
dim  light:  but  now,  as  the  streaks  of  the  dawn  grew  brighter  in 
the  east  behind  them,  they  could  see  the  fir-trees  clothing  the 
distant  slopes,  and  here  and  there  one  of  the  higher  summits 
still  covered  with  white  snow.  The  scene  was  cold  and  dead 
and  dreary  as  the  grave.  A  heavy  mist  hung  over  the  mountain 
plain,  and  an  icy  lake  lay  black  and  cold  beneath  the  morning 
sky.  As  they  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill  the  mist  rose,  stirred 
by  a  little  breeze  at  sunrise,  and  the  gorges  of  the  descent  lay 
clear  before  them.  The  sun  arose  behind  them,  gilding  the 
mountain-tops,  and  tracing  streaks  and  shades  of  color  on  the 
rising  mist  sparkling  with  glittering  dewdrops;  while  dark  and 
solemn  beneath  them  lay  the  pine-clothed  ravines  and  sloping 
valleys,  with  here  and  there  a  rocky  peak;  and  farther  down  still 
the  woods  and  hills  gave  place  at  last  to  the  plain  of  the  Tiber, 
at  present  dark  and   indistinguishable  in  the  night. 

As  the  sun  arose  behind  them,  one  by  one  the  pine  ravines 
became  lighted,  and  the  snowy  summits,  soft  and  pink  with  radi- 
ant light,  stood  out  against  the  sky,  which  became  every  instant 
of  a  deeper  blue.  The  sunlight,  stealing  down  the  defiles  and 
calling  forth  into  distinct  shape  and  vision  tree  and  rock  and 
flashing  stream,  spread  itself  over  the  oak  woods  in  the  A-alle3's, 
and  shone  at  last  upon  the  plain,  embossed  and  radiant  with 
wood  and  green  meadow,  and  marble  towers  and  glistering  water 
—  the  waters  of  the  Tiber  running  onward  towards  Rome.  Mys- 
terious forms  and  waves  of  light,  the  creatures  of  the  morning 
and  of  the  mist,  floated  before  the  sight,  and  from  the  dark  fir- 
trees  murmurs  and  mutterings  of  ethereal  life  fell  upon  the  ear. 
Sudden  and  passionate  flushes  of  color  tinted  the  pine  woods  and 
were  gone;  and  beneath  the  branches  and  across  the  paths,  fairy 
lights  played  for  a  moment  and  passed  away. 

The  party  halted  more  than  once,  but  it  was  necessary  to 
make  the  long  descent  before  the  heat  began,  and  they  com- 
menced carefully  to  pick  their  way  down  the  stony  mountain 
road,  which  wound  down  the  ravines  in  wild  imequal  paths.  The 
track,  now  precipitous,  now  almost  level,  took  them  round  corners 
and  masses  of  rock  sometimes  hanging  above  their  heads,  reveal- 
ing  continually   new   reaches  of   valleys  and   new  defiles   clothed 


13380  JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE 

with  fir  and  oak.  Mountain  flowers  and  trailing  ivy  and  creep- 
ing plants  hung  in  festoons  on  every  side,  lizards  ran  across  the 
path,  birds  fluttered  above  them  or  darted  into  the  dark  recesses 
where  the  mountain  brooks  were  heard;  everything  sang  the 
morning  psalm  of  life,  with  which,  from  field  and  mountain  soli- 
tudes, the  free  children  of  nature  salute  the  day. 

The  Austrian  boy  felt  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  and  broke  out 
into  singing. 

**  When  the  northern  gods,  ^'  he  said  to  Inglesant,  **  rode  on 
their  chevisance,  they  went  down  into  the  deep  valleys  singing 
magic  songs.  Let  us  into  this  dark  valley,  singing  magic  songs, 
also  go  down:  who  knows  what  strange  and  hidden  deity,  since 
the  old  pagan  times  lost  and  forgotten,  we  may  find  among  the 
dark  fir  dingles  and  the  laurel  shades  ?  ** 

And  he  began  to  sing  some  love  ditty. 

Inglesant  did  not  hear  him.  The  beauty  of  the  scene,  ethereal 
and  unreal  in  its  loveliness,  following  upon  the  long  dark  mountain 
ride,  his  sleepless  nights  and  strange  familiarity  with  approaching 
death  by  the  couch  of  the  old  duke,  confused  his  senses,  and  a 
presentiment  of  impending  fate  filled  his  mind.  The  recollec- 
tion of  his  brother  rose  again  in  his  remembrance,  distinct  and 
present  as  in  life;  and  more  than  once  he  fancied  that  he  heard 
his  voice,  as  the  cry  of  some  mountain  beast  or  sound  of  moan- 
ing trees,  came  up  the  pass.  No  other  foreshadowing  than  this 
very  imperfect  one  warned  him  of  the  approaching  crisis  of  his 
life. 

The  sun  was  fully  up,  and  the  light  already  brilliant  and 
intense,  when  they  approached  a  projecting  point  where  the  slope 
of  wood  ended  in  a  tower  of  rock  jutting  upon  the  road.  The 
path  by  which  they  approached  it  was  narrow  and  ragged;  but 
beyond  the  rock  the  ground  spread  itself  out,  and  the  path  w^as 
carried  inward  towards  the  right,  having  the  sloping  hillside  on 
the  one  hand  covered  with  scattered  oaks,  while  on  the  othef 
a  slip  of  ground  separated  it  from  the  ravine.  At  the  turning 
of  the  road,  where  the  opening  valley  lay  before  them  as  they 
reached  the  corner,  face  to  face  with  Inglesant  as  he  checked 
his  horse  was  the  Italian,  the  inquisitive  stranger  of  the  theatre 
at  Florence,  the  intruder  into  the  Conclave,  the  masque  of  the 
Carnival  ball,  the  assassin  of  the  Corso, —  that  Malvolti  who  had 
treacherously  murdered  his  brother  and  sought  his  own  life. 
Alone    and    weary,    his    clothes    worn    and    threadbare,    he    came 


JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE  13381 

toiling-  Up  the  pass.  Inglesant  reined  in  his  horse  suddenly,  a 
strange  and  fierce  light  in  his  eyes  and  face.  The  Italian  started 
back  like  some  wild  creature  of  the  forest  brought  suddenly  to 
bay,  a  terrified  cry  broke  from  him,  and  he  looked  wildly  round 
as  if  intending  flight.  The  nature  of  the  ground  caught  him  as 
in  a  trap:  on  the  one  hand  the  sloping  hillside,  steep  and  open, 
on  the  other  tangled  rugged  ground,  slightly  rising  between  the 
road  and  the  precipice,  cut  off  all  hope  of  sudden  flight.  He 
looked  wildly  round  for  a  moment;  then,  when  the  horsemen 
came  round  the  rocky  wall  and  halted  behind  their  leader,  his 
eyes  came  back  to  Inglesant's  face,  and  he  marked  the  smile 
upon  his  lips  and  in  his  eyes,  and  saw  his  hand  steal  downward 
to  the  hunting-piece  he  carried  at  the  saddle;  then  with  a  terri- 
ble cry  he  threw  himself  on  his  knees  before  the  horse's  head, 
and  begged  for  pity, —  pity  and  life. 

Inglesant  took  his  hand  from  his  weapon,  and  turning  slightly 
to  the  page  and  to  the  others  behind  him,  he  said:  — 

"  This  man,  mcsseri,  is  a  murderer  and  a  villain,  steeped  in 
every  crime;  a  cruel  secret  midnight  cut-throat  and  assassin;  a 
lurker  in  secret  corners  to  murder  the  innocent.  He  took  my 
brother,  a  noble  gentleman  whom  I  was  proud  to  follow,  treach- 
erously at  an  advantage,  and  slew  him.  I  see  him  now  before 
me  lying  in  his  blood.  He  tried  to  take  my  life, —  I,  who  scarcely 
even  knew  him,  —  in  the  streets  of  Rome.  Now  he  begs  for 
mercy.     What   say  you,  gentlemen  ?    what  is  his  due  ?  " 

"  Shoot  the  dog  through  the  head.  Hang  him  on  the  nearest 
tree.     Carry  him  into  Rome  and  torture  him  to  death.** 

The  Italian  still  continued  on  his  knees,  his  hands  clasped 
before  him,  his  face  working  with  terror  and  agony  that  could 
not  be  disguised. 

"Mercy,  monsignore,**  he  cried.  "Mercy!  I  cannot,  I  dare 
not,  I  am  not  fit  to  die.  For  the  blessed  Host,  monsignore,  have 
mercy  —  for  the  love  of  Jesu  —  for  the  sake  of  Jesu.** 

As  he  said  these  last  words  Inglesant's  attitude  altered,  and 
the  cruel  light  faded  out  of  his  eyes.  His  hand  ceased  to  finger 
the  carabine  at  his  saddle;  and  he  sat  still  upon  his  horse,  look- 
ing down  upon  the  abject  wretch  before  him,  while  a  man  might 
count  fifty.  The  Italian  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  that  his  judge 
was  inclining  to  mercy,  and  he  renewed  his  appeals  for  pity. 

"For  the  love  of  the  crucifix,  monsignore;  for  the  Blessed 
Virgin's  sake.** 


13382  JOHN  HENRY   6HORTHOUSE 

But  Inglesant  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  He  turned  to  the 
horsemen  behind  him,   and  said:  — 

"  Take  him  up,  one  of  you,  on  the  crupper.  Search  him  first 
for  arms.  Another  keep  his  eye  on  him;  and  if  he  moves  or 
attempts  to  escape,  shoot  him  dead.  You  had  better  come  qui- 
etly, '^  he  continued :   ^*  it  is  your  only  chance  for  life.  *^ 

Two  of  the  men-at-arms  dismounted  and  searched  the  pris- 
oner, but  found  no  arms  upon  him.  He  seemed  indeed  to  be 
in  the  greatest  distress  from  hunger  and  want,  and  his  clothes 
were  ragged  and  thin.  He  was  mounted  behind  one  of  the  sol- 
diers and  closely  watched;  but  he  made  no  attempt  to  escape, 
and  indeed  appeared  to  have  no  strength  or  energy  for  such  an 
effort. 

They  went  on  down  the  pass  for  about  an  Italian  league.  The 
country  became  more  thickly  wooded;  and  here  and  there  on  the 
hillsides,  patches  of  corn  appeared,  and  once  or  twice  in  a  shel- 
tered spot  a  few  vines.  At  length,  on  the  broad  shoulder  of  the 
hill  round  which  the  path  wound,  they  saw  before  them  a  few 
cottages;  and  above  them  on  the  hillside,  in  a  position  that  com- 
manded the  distant  pass  till  it  opened  on  the  plain,  was  a  chapel, 
the  bell  of  which  had  just  ceased  ringing  for  mass. 

Inglesant  turned  his  horse's  head  up  the  narrow  stony  path; 
and  when  the  gate  was  reached,  he  dismounted  and  entered  the 
chapel,  followed  by  his  train.  The  cappella  had  apparently  been 
built  of  the  remains  of  some  temple  or  old  Roman  house;  for 
many  of  the  stones  of  the  front  were  carved  in  bold  relief.  It 
was  a  small  narrow  building,  and  possessed  no  furniture  save 
the  altar  and  a  rude  pulpit  built  of  stones;  but  behind  the  altar, 
painted  on  the  plaster  of  the  wall,  was  the  rood  or  crucifix,  the 
size  of  life.  Who  the  artist  had  been,  cannot  now  be  told:  it 
might  have  been  the  pupil  of  soine  great  master,  who  had  caught 
something  of  the  master's  skill;  or  perhaps,  in  the  old  time,  some 
artist  had  come  up  the  pass  from  Borgo  San  Sepolcro,  and  had' 
painted  it  for  the  love  of  his  art  and  of  the  Blessed  Virgin;  but 
whoever  had  done  it,  it  was  well  done,  and  it  gave  a  sanctity 
to  the  little  chapel,  and  possessed  an  influence,  of  which  the 
villagers  were  not  unconscious,  and  of  which  they  were  even 
proud. 

The  mass  had  commenced  some  vShort  time  as  the  train 
entered,  and  such  few  women  and  peasants  as  were  present 
turned  in  surprise. 


JOHN  HENRY  SHORTHOUSE  1 3383 

Inglesant  knelt  upon  the  steps  before  the  altar,  and  the  men- 
at-arms  upon  the  floor  of  the  chapel;  the  t*vo  who  guarded  the 
prisoner  keeping  close  behind  their  leader. 

The  priest,  who  was  an  old  and  simple-looking  countryman, 
continued  his  office  without  stopping,  but  when  he  had  received 
the  sacred  elements  himself,  he  turned,  and,  influenced  probably 
by  his  appearance  and  by  his  position  at  the  altar,  he  offered 
Inglesant  the  sacrament.  He  took  it;  and  the  priest,  turning 
again   to  the   altar,   finished  the  mass. 

Then  Inglesant  rose;  and  when  the  priest  turned  again  he  was 
standing  before  the  altar,  with  his  drawn  sword  held  lengthwise 
across  his  hands. 

"My  father,^'  he  said,  "I  am  the  Cavaliere  di  San  Giorgio; 
and  as  I  came  across  the  mountains  this  morning  on  my  way 
to  Rome,  I  met  my  mortal  foe,  the  murderer  of  my  brother, — 
a  wretch  whose  life  is  forfeit  by  every  law  either  of  earth  or 
heaven,  a  guilty  monster  steeped  in  every  crime.  Him,  as  soon 
as  I  had  met  him, —  sent  by  this  lonely  and  untrodden  way  as  it 
seems  to  me  by  the  Lord's  hand, —  I  thought  to  crush  at  once, 
as  I  would  a  venomous  beast,  though  he  is  worse  than  any  beast. 
But,  my  father,  he  has  appealed  from  me  to  the  adorable  name 
of  Jesus,  and  I  cannot  touch  him.  But  he  will  not  escape.  I 
give  him  over  to  the  Lord.  I  give  up  my  sword  into  the  Lord's 
hands,  that  He  may  work  my  vengeance  upon  him  as  it  seems 
to  Him  good.  Henceforth  he  is  safe  from  earthly  retribution, 
but  the  Divine  Powers  are  just.  Take  this  sword,  reverend 
father,  and  let  it  lie  upon  the  altar  beneath  the  Christ  himself; 
and  I  will  make  an  offering  for  daily  masses  for  my  brother's 
soul.'^ 

The  priest  took  the  sword;  and  kneeling  before  the  altar, 
placed   it   thereon   like   a  man   acting  in   a  dream. 

He  was  one  of  those  childlike  peasant-priests  to  whom  the 
great  world  was  unknown;  and  to  whom  his  mountain  solitudes 
were  peopled  as  much  by  the  saints  and  angels  of  his  breviary, 
as  by  the  peasants  who  shared  with  him  the  solitudes  and  the 
legends  that  gave  to  these  mountain  fastnesses  a  mysterious 
awe.  To  such  a  man  as  this  it  seemed  nothing  strange  that  the 
blessed  St.  George  himself,  in  jeweled  armor,  should  stand  before 
the  altar  in  the  mystic  morning  light,  his  shining  sword  in  his 
hand. 

He  turned  again  to  Inglesant,  who  had  knelt  down  once  more. 


12284  JOHN   HENRY   SHORTHOUSE 

"It  is  well  done,  monsignore/^  he  said,  "as  all  that  thou  doest 
doubtless  is  most  wftU.  The  sword  shall  remain  here  as  thou 
sayest,  and  the  Lord  doubtless  will  work  his  blessed  will.  But 
I  entreat,  monsignore,  thy  intercession  for  me,  a  poor  sinful 
man;  and  when  thou  returnest  to  thy  place,  and  seest  again  the 
Lord  Jesus,  that  thou  wilt  remind  him  of  his  unworthy  priest. 
Amen.  '^ 

Inglesant  scarcely  heard  what  he  said,  and  certainly  did  not 
understand  it.  His  sense  was  confused  by  what  had  happened, 
and  by  the  sudden  overmastermg  impulse  upon  which  he  had 
acted.  He  moved  as  in  a  dream;  nothing  seemed  to  come 
strange  to  him,  nothing  startled  him,  and  he  took  slight  heed  of 
what  passed.  He  placed  his  embroidered  purse,  heavy  with  gold, 
in  the  priest's  hand,  and  in  his  excitement  totally  forgot  to  name 
his  brother,  for  whose  repose  masses  were  to  be  said. 

He  signed  to  his  men  to  release  the  prisoner;  and,  his  trum- 
pets sounding  to  horse  before  the  chapel  gate,  he  mounted  and 
rode  on  down  the  pass. 

But  his  visit  was  not  forgotten:  and  long  afterward  —  per- 
haps even  to  the  present  day  —  popular  tradition  took  the  story 
up,  and  related  that  once,  when  the  priest  of  the  mountain  chapel 
was  a  very  holy  man,  the  blessed  St.  George  himself,  in  shining 
armor,  came  across  the  mountains  one  morning  very  early,  and 
himself  partook  of  the  sacrament,  and  all  his  train;  and  appealed 
triumphantly  to  the  magic  sword,  set  with  gold  and  precious 
stones,  that  lay  upon  the  altar  from  that  morning, —  by  virtue 
of  which  no  harm  can  befall  the  village,  no  storm  strike  it,  and 
above  all,  no  pillage  of  armed  men  or  any  violence  can  occur. 


SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 


13385 


SIR   PHILIP  SIDNEY 

(1554-1586) 

BY   PITTS   DUFFIELD 

SHEN  I  was  a  boy  nine  years  old,"  says  Aubrey  the  antiquary, 
<*  I  was  with  my  father  at  one  Mr.  Singleton's,  an  alderman 
and  woollen  draper,  in  Gloucester,  who  had  in  his  parlour 
over  the  chimney  the  whole  description  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  funer- 
all,  engraved  and  printed  on  papers  pasted  together,  which  at  length 
was,  I  believe,  the  length  of  the  room  at  least.  But  he  had  contrived 
it  to  be  twined  upon  two  pinnes,  that  turning  one  of  them  made  the 
figures  march  all  in  order.  It  did  make  such  a  strong  impression 
on  my  young  tender  phantasy  that  I  remember  it  as  if  it  were  but 
yesterday. »  The  pageantry  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  life  and  death  is 
still  potent  to  impress  the  tender  fancy,  young  or  old;  it  cannot  be 
forgotten  by  anybody  who  to-day  would  meddle  with  the  estimate 
put  upon  him  by  his  contemporaries.  That  he  was  the  embodied  ideal 
of  all  the  Elizabethan  world  held  noble  in  life  and  art,  there  is  an 
almost  inconceivable  amount  of  tribute  to  testify.  All  England  and 
most  of  Europe  went  into  mourning  at  his  death ;  and  while  he  lived, 
the  name  of  Astrophel  was  one  that  poets  conjured  with.  Bruno 
the  philosopher,  Languet  the  Huguenot,  enshrined  him  in  their  affec- 
tions; and  Sir  Fulke  Greville  the  thinker,  in  the  never-to-be-forgotten 
epitaph,  was  proud  to  remember  that  besides  having  been  servant  to 
Queen  Elizabeth  and  counselor  to  King  James,  he  had  been  also  Sir 
Philip  Sidney's  friend. 

The  extraordinary  charm  of  this  celebrated  personality  is  hardly 
to  be  accounted  for  completely  by  the  flavor  of  high  romance  about 
him,  or  by  attributing  to  him  what  nowadays  has  been  called  per- 
sonal magnetism.  Something  of  temperamental  magic  there  must 
have  been,  to  be  sure;  but  even  in  his  short  life  there  was  something 
also  of  distinct  purpose  and  achievement.  When  in  his  thirty-second 
year  —  for  he  was  born  November  29th,  .1554,  and  died  October  5th, 
1586  —  he  received  his  death  wound  at  the  siege  of  Zutphcn,  he 
had  already  gained  the  reputation  of  more  than  ordinary  promise 
in  statesmanship,  and  had  made  himself  an  authority  in  questions  of 
letters.  The  results  of  modern  scholarship  seem  to  show,  on  the 
whole,  that  his  renown  was  more  richly  deserved  than  subsequent 
opinion  has  always  been  willing  to  admit. 


13386  SIR   PHILIP  SIDNEY 

In  the  first  place,  Sidney's  devotion  to  art  was  steadfast  and 
sincere.  Throughout  his  travels  on  the  Continent,  whether  in  the 
midst  ot  the  terrors  of  St.  Bartholomew  in  Paris,  or  of  the  degener- 
ative Italy, —  which  for  its  manifold  temptations  old  Roger  Ascham 
declared  a  Circe's  court  of  vice, —  he  held  a  high-spirited  philosophy 
which  kept  him  alike  from  evil  and  from  bigotry.  Dante  and  Pe- 
trarch more  than  any  fleshly  following  were  his  companions  in  Italy. 
On  the  grand  tour  or  in  his  foreign  missions,  as  his  writings  always 
show,  he  was  ever  the  true  observer.  In  the  splendors  of  Eliza- 
beth's court  —  such  as,  for  instance,  the  Kenilworth  progress,  which 
his  uncle  the  Earl  of  Leicester  devised  for  the  gratification  of  the 
Queen's  Majesty  —  he  had  always  an  eye  for  the  romantic  aspects  of 
things,  and  a  thought  for  the  significance  of  them.  The  beautiful 
face  in  the  Warwick  Castle  portrait  —  lofty  with  the  truth  of  a  soul 
that  derives  itself  from  Plato  —  cannot  have  been  the  visage  of  a 
nature  careless  of  its  intellectual  powers  or  its  fame;  but  of  one  most 
serious,  as  his  friend  Fulke  Greville  testifies,  and  strenuous  in  his 
public  duty.  The  celebrated  romance  of  < Arcadia  ^  —  which  he  wrote 
for  his  sister  Mary,  Countess  of  Pembroke,  in  retirement  at  Pens- 
hurst,  his  birthplace,  after  his  courageous  letter  of  remonstrance  to 
the  Queen  concerning  the  French  match  —  is  entirely  the  outcome  of 
a  mind  that  did  its  own  thinking,  and  made  even  its  idle  thoughts 
suggestive  in  the  study  of  the  literature. 

At  first  sight  the  Countess  of  Pembroke's  ^Arcadia  *  may  seem, 
indeed,  but  the  <*  vain  amatorious  poem  '^  which  Milton  condemned 
Charles  I.  for  using  upon  the  scaffold.  Sidney  himself  might  have 
called  it  a  poem:  for  "it  is  not  rhyming  and  versing,'^  he  says,  "that 
maketh  a  poet;  but  it  is  that  feigning  notable  images  of  virtues, 
vices,  or  what  else,  with  that  delightful  teaching,  which  must  be  the 
right  describing  note  to  know  a  poet  by:>>  and  he  did  call  it,  in  his 
dedication,  "an  idle  work,'*  —  "a  trifle  and  trifling  handled.''  But  it 
is  to  be  noted  that  what  Charles  used  of  it  was  a  prayer  put  origi- 
nally in  the  mouth  of  Pamela,  and  that  Dr.  Johnson  declared  his  use 
of  it  was  innocent.  Pamela  also,  in  spite  of  the  trifling  diversions  ^of 
Philip  and  his  sister  the  Countess,  has  a  way  of  pretty  often  growing 
eloquent  on  serious  matters.  "  You  say  yesterday  was  as  to-day," 
she  exclaims.  "  O  foolish  woman,  and  most  miserably  foolish  since 
wit  makes  you  foolish,  what  does  that  argue  but  that  there  is  a 
constancy  in  the  everlasting  governor?"  And  Pamela's  exposition  of 
her  faith,  in  Book  iii.,  is  more  theology  than  many  a  trifler  would 
care  to  read  or  write  to-day.  Altogether  this  elaborate  compound  of 
Spanish,  Italian,  and  Greek  pastoral,  and  romantic  incident,  has  its 
fair  share  of  the  moral  element  which  the  English  nature  inevitably 
craves. 


SIR   PHILIP  SIDNEY  X3387 

Another  element  in  it,  less  peculiar  to  the  Saxon  race,  but  always 
characteristic  of  Sidney,  is  its  strong  instinctive  art.  In  form,  of 
course, —  though  Sidney  had  a  leaning  toward  the  unities, —  it  is 
purely  romantic.  Its  art  is  to  be  found  in  the  most  distinctive  char- 
acteristic of  the  Elizabethans, —  the  art  of  putting  together  canorous 
words  and  phrases.  When  Sidney  retired  to  Penshurst  in  1580,  the 
whole  world  was  reading  John  Lyly's  ^Euphues^  in  which  the  love  of 
elaborate  language  found  vent  in  complicated  systems  of  alliteration, 
antitheses,  and  similes  borrowed  from  an  artificial  natural  history. 
Sidney,  though  like  Shakespeare  after  him  he  did  not  entirely  escape 
this  craze,  was  not  slow  to  transmute  the  rather  mechanical  sys- 
tem of  Lyly  into  something  more  really  musical.  His  style  shows 
traces  also  of  the  foreign  models  he  set  himself;  but  in  the  end,  like 
the  matter  he  borrowed,  it  resolves  itself  into  something  individual, 
in  its  persistent  aim  in  saying  what  it  has  to  say  simply  (according 
to  his  lights)  and  beautifully.  More  specifically,  its  verse  contains 
also  many  experiments  in  the  classic  metres,  which  Harvey,  Spenser, 
and  other  literary  men  of  the  day  hoped  to  introduce  into  English; 
but  Sidney,  whatever  were  his  failures,  never  held  anything  but  the 
loftiest  estimate  of  the  real  poet  or  worker  in  words.  His  eloquent 
defense  of  «poesie,*>  written  soon  after  the  Arcadia,  and  before  Eng- 
land had  produced  more  than  a  very  few  of  the  works  for  which  her 
literature  is  now  famous,  is  a  marvel  of  prophetic  sympathy.  In 
spite  of  his  sometimes  academic  judgments,  the  very  fact  of  his  crit- 
icism shows  that  he  had  an  interest  in  the  then  unfashionable  and 
sordid  theatre;  and  more  than  any  of  the  criticising  pamphleteers  of 
his  time,  he  had  an  ear  for  the  poetry  of  the  common  people.  <<  Cer- 
tainly," he  says,  in  the  famous  passage  in  the  ^Defense  of  Poesie,* 
<*  I  must  confess  mine  own  barbarousness:  I  never  heard  the  old  song 
of  Percy  and  Douglas  that  I  found  not  my  heart  moved  more  than 
with  a  trumpet;  and  yet  it  is  sung  but  by  some  blind  crowder.  with 
no  rougher  voice  than  rude  style, —  which  being  so  evilly  appareled 
in  the  dust  and  cobwebs  of  that  uncivil  age,  what  would  it  work 
trimmed  in  the  gorgeous  eloquence  of  Pindar?" 

It  is  with  this  notion  of  Sidney  as  a  literary  man  of  wide  sym- 
pathy and  high  thoughts,  if  of  a  somewhat  too  bookish  Muse,  that  we 
can  most  easily  apprehend  his  last  and  perhaps  greatest  work, — the 
series  of  sonnets  and  poems  called  'Astrophel  and  Stella.*  Literary 
gossip  and  scholarship  are  still  busy  with  the  question  whether  the 
Stella  of  the  Sonnets,  Penelope  Devereux,  was  already  Lady  Rich, 
and  so  a  married  woman,  when  Astrophel  made  his  poetical  love  to 
her.  The  important  thing  to-day  is  that  there  was  a  Stella  at  all. 
Lady  Rich,  married  against  her  will  to  an  unworthy  spouse,  remains 
true  to  him,  in  the  Sonnets  at  least;  and  Sidney  in  the  end,  having 


13388  SIR   PHILIP  SIDNEY 

pledged  his  hand  to  Frances  Walsingham,  the  daughter  of  his  friend 
Sir  Francis  Walsingham,  transcends  his  earthly  love  in  a  love  of 
eternal  and  spiritual  things.  <<  The  argument  cruel  Chastity,'*  says 
Thomas  Nash,  his  first  editor;  "the  prologue  Hope,  the  epilogue 
Despair.**  <*  My  theory  of  the  love  which  it  portrays,**  says  Mr. 
Symonds,  one  of  his  recent  biographers,  "  is  that  this  was  latent 
up  to  the  time  of  .her  betrothal,  and  that  the  consciousness  of  the 
irrevocable  at  that  moment  made  it  break  into  the  kind  of  regretful 
passion  which  is  peculiarly  suited  for  poetic  treatment.**  Certainly  it 
was  not  the  mere  amatorious  element  in  the  poems  which  made  the 
name  of  Astrophel  dear  to  men  like  Jonson,  Crashaw,  Wither,  and 
stately  Sir  Thomas  Browne;  nor  is  it  the  artificial  element  that  need 
concern  the  reader  in  these  days.  Without  either  of  these,  there  is 
plenty  of  lettered  charm,  searching  thought  into  the  relations  of  the 
body  and  the  soul,  high  and  beautiful  speculation  on  the  conditions 
of  earthly  life,  expressed  everywhere  in  the  spirit  of  one  who,  as 
Wotton  says,  was  "the  very  essence  of  congruity.** 


/w/   C-^-^^-fc.w-C»>— 


THE  ARRIVAL   IN  ARCADIA 


MusiDORus  (who,  besides  he  was  merely  unacquainted  in  the 
country,  had  his  wits  astonished  with  sorrow)  gave  easy 
consent  to  that,  from  which  he  saw  no  reason  to  disagree, 
and  therefore  (defraying  the  mariners  with  a  ring  bestowed  upon 
them)  they  took  their  journey  together  through  Laconia:  Claius 
and  Strephon  by  course  carrying  his  chest  for  him,  Musidorus 
only  bearing  in  his  countenance  evident  marks  of  a  sorrowful 
mind  supported  with  a  weak  body;  which  they  perceiving,  and 
knowing  that  the  violence  of  sorrow  is  not  at  the  first  to  be 
striven  withal  (being  like  a  mighty  beast,  sooner  tamed  with  fol- 
lowing than  overthrown  by  withstanding),  they  gave  way  unto  it 
for  that  day  and  the  next, — never  troubling  him  either  with 
asking  questions  or  finding  fault  with  his  melancholy,  but  rather 
fitting  to  his  dolor,  dolorous  discourses  of  their  own  and  other 
folks'  misfortunes.  Which  speeches,  though  they  had  not  a  lively 
entrance  to  his  senses  shut  up  in  sorrow,  yet  like  one  half  asleep 
he  took  hold  of  much  of  the  matters  spoken  unto  him,  so  as  a 
man   may    say,  e'er   sorrow    was   aware,  they   made   his   thoughts 


SIR    PHILIP    SIDNEY 


13389 


bear  away  something  else  beside  his  own  sorrow:  which  wrought 
so  in  him  that  at  length  he  grew  content  to  mark  their  speeches; 
then  to  marvel  at  such  wit  in  shepherds;  after  to  like  their 
company;  and  lastly  to  vouchsafe  conference:  so  that  the  third 
day  after,  in  the  time  that  the  morning  did  strew  roses  and  vio- 
lets in  the  heavenly  floor  against  the  coming  of  the  sun,  the 
nightingales  (striving  one  with  the  other  which  could  in  most 
dainty  variety  recount  their  wrong-caused  sorrow)  made  them  put 
off  their  sleep;  and  rising  from  under  a  tree  (which  that  night 
had  been  their  pavilion)  they  went  on  their  journey,  which  by- 
and-by  welcomed  Musidorus's  eyes  (wearied  with  the  wasted  soil 
of  Laconia)  with  delightful  prospects.  There  were  hills  which 
garnished  their  proud  heights  with  stately  trees;  humble  valleys, 
whose  base  estate  seemed  comforted  with  the  refreshing  of  silver 
rivers;  meadows  enameled  with  all  sorts  of  eye-pleasing  flowers; 
thickets,  which  being  lined  with  most  pleasant  shade,  were  wit- 
nessed so  too  by  the  cheerful  disposition  of  so  many  well-tuned 
birds;  each  pasture  stored  with  sheep,  feeding  with  sober  secur- 
ity, while  the  pretty  lambs  with  bleating  oratory  craved  the 
dam's  comfort:  here  a  shepherd's  boy  piping  as  though  he  should 
never  be  old;  there  a  young  shepherdess  knitting,  and  withal 
singing,  and  it  seemed  that  her  voice  comforted  her  hands  to 
work,  and  her  hands  kept  time  to  her  voice-music.  As  for  the 
houses  of  the  country  (for  many  houses  came  under  their  eye), 
they  were  all  scattered,  no  two  being  one  by  the  other,  as  yet 
not  so  far  off  as  that  it  barred  mutual  succor:  a  show  as  it 
were  of  an  accompanable  solitariness  and  of  a  civil  wildness.  I 
pray  you  (said  Musidorus,  then  first  unsealing  his  long-silent  lips), 
what  countries  be  these  we  pass  through  which  are  so  diverse  in 
show, —  the  one  wanting  no  store,  the  other  having  no  store  but 
of  want  ? 

The  country  (answered  Claius)  where  you  were  cast  ashore, 
and  now  are  past  through,  is  Laconia,  not  so  poor  by  the  bar- 
renness of  the  soil  (though  in  itself  not  passing  fertile)  as  by 
a  civil  war,  which  being  these  two  years  within  the  bowels  of 
that  estate,  between  the  gentlemen  and  the  peasants  (by  them 
named  Helots),  hath  in  this  sort  as  it  were  disfigured  the  face  of 
nature,  and  made  it  so  unhospitable  as  now  you  have  found  it: 
the  towns  neither  of  the  one  side  nor  the  other  willingly  opening 
their  gates  to  strangers,  nor  strangers  willingly  entering  for  fear 
of  being  mistaken. 


t3390  SIR    PHILIP   SIDNEY 

But  the  country  where  now  you  set  your  foot  is  Arcadia; 
and  even  hard  by  is  the  house  of  Kalander,  whither  we  lead 
you.  This  country  being  thus  decked  with  peace,  and  (the  child 
of  peace)  good  husbandry,  these  houses  you  see  so  scattered  are 
of  men,  as  we  two  are,  that  live  upon  the  commodity  of  their 
sheep;  and  therefore  in  the  division  of  the  Arcadian  estate  are 
termed  shepherds:  a  happy  people,  wanting  little  because  they 
desire  not  much.  What  cause  then,  said  Musidorus,  made  you 
venture  to  leave  this  sweet  life,  and  put  yourself  in  yonder  un- 
pleasant and  dangerous  realm  ?  Guarded  with  poverty  (answered 
Strephon)  and  guided  with  love.  But  now  (said  Claius),  since  it 
hath  pleased  you  to  ask  anything  of  us,  whose  baseness  is  such 
as  the  very  knowledge  is  darkness,  give  us  leave  to  know  some- 
thing of  you,  and  of  the  young  man  you  so  much  lament;  that 
at  least  we  inay  be  the  better  instructed  to  inform  Kalander,  and 
he  the  better  know  how  to  proportion  his  entertainment.  Musi- 
dorus (according  to  the  agreement  between  P3'rocles  and  him 
to  alter  their  names)  answered,  that  he  called  himself  Palladius, 
and  his  friend  Daiphantus:  but  till  I  have  him  again  (said  he) 
I  am  indeed  nothing,  and  therefore  my  story  is  of  nothing;  his 
entertainrnent  (since  so  good  a  man  he  is)  cannot  be  so  low  as  I 
account  my  estate:  and  in  sum,  the  sum  of  all  his  courtesy  may 
be  to  help  me  by  some  means  to  seek  my  friend. 

They  perceived  he  was  not  willing  to  open  himself  farther, 
and  therefore,  without  farther  questioning,  brought  him  to  the 
house;  about  which  they  might  see  (with  fit  consideration  both 
of  the  air,  the  prospect,,  and  the  nature  of  the  ground)  all  such 
necessary  additions  to  a  great  house  as  might  well  show  Kalander 
knew  that  provision  is  the  foundation  of  hospitality,  and  thrift 
the  fuel  of  magnificence.  The  house  itself  was  built  of  fair  and 
strong  stone,  not  affecting  so  much  any  extraordinary  kind_  of 
fineness,  as  an  honorable  representing  of  a  firm  stateliness.  The 
lights,  doors,  and  stairs  rather  directed  to  the  use  of  the  guest 
than  to  the  eye  of  the  artificer;  and  yet  as  the  one  chiefly  heeded, 
so  the  other  not  neglected:  each  place  handsome  without  curiosity, 
and  homely  without  loathsomeness;  not  so  dainty  as  not  to  be 
trod  on,  nor  yet  slubbered  up  with  good-fellowship:  all  more 
lasting  than  beautiful,  but  that  the  consideration  of  the  exceed- 
ing lastingness  made  the  eye  believe  it  was  exceeding  beautiful. 
The  servants  not  so  many  in  number,  as  cleanly  in  apparel  and 
serviceable  in  behavior;  testifying  even  in  their  countenances,  that 


SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY  I339I 

their  master  took  as  well  care  to  be  served  as  of  them  that  did 
serve.  One  of  them  was  forthwith  ready  to  welcome  the  shep- 
herds as  men  who,  though  they  were  poor,  their  master  greatly 
favored;  and  understanding  by  them  that  the  young  man  with 
them  was  to  be  much  accounted  of, —  for  that  they  had  seen 
tokens  of  more  than  common  greatness,  howsoever  now  eclipsed 
with  fortune, —  he  ran  to  his  master,  who  came  presently  forth, 
and  pleasantly  welcoming  the  shepherds,  but  especially  applying 
him  to  Musidorus,  Strephon  privately  told  him  all  what  he  knew 
of  him,  and  particularly  that  he  found  this  stranger  was  loth  to 
be  known. 

No,  said  Kalander  (speaking  aloud),  I  am  no  herald  to  inquire 
of  men's  pedigrees:  it  sufficeth  me  if  I  know  their  virtues;  which 
(if  this  young  man's  face  be  not  a  false  witness)  do  better 
apparel  his  mind  than  you  have  done  his  body.  While  he  was 
thus  speaking,  there  came  a  boy,  in  show  like  a  merchant's 
'prentice,  who,  taking  Strephon  by  the  sleeve,  delivered  him  a 
letter,  written  jointly  both  to  him  and  to  Claius  from  Urania; 
which  they  no  sooner  had  read,  but  that  with  short  leave-taking 
of  Kalander  (who  quickly  guessed  and  smiled  at  the  matter),  and 
once  again  (though  hastily)  recommending  the  young  man  unto 
him,  they  went  away,  leaving  Musidorus  even  loth  to  part  with 
them,  for  the  good  conversation  he  had  had  of  them,  and  obliga- 
tion he  accounted  himself  tied  in  unto  them:  and  therefore,  they 
delivering  his  chest  imto  him,  he  opened  it,  and  would  have 
presented  them  with  two  very  rich  jewels,  but  they  absolutely 
refused  them,  telling  him  that  they  were  more  than  enough 
rewarded  in  the  knowing  of  him ;  and  without  hearkening  unto 
a  reply  (like  men  whose  hearts  disdained  all  desires  but  one)  got 
speedily  away,  as  if  the  letter  had  brought  wings  to  make  them 
fly.  But  by  that  sight  Kalander  soon  judged  that  his  guest  was 
of  no  mean  calling;  and  therefore  the  more  respectfully  entertain- 
ing him,  Musidorus  found  his  sickness  (which  the  fight,  the  sea, 
and  late  travel  had  laid  upon  him)  grow  greatly:  so  that  fearing 
some  sudden  accident,  he  delivered  the  chest  to  Kalander,  which 
was  full  of  most  precious  stones,  gorgeously  and  cunningly  set  in 
divers  manners;  desiring  liim  he  would  keep  those  trifles,  and  if 
he  died,  he  would  bestow  so  much  of  it  as  was  needful,  to  find 
out  and  redeem  a  young  man,  naming  hiiii  Daiphantus,  as  then 
in  the  hands  of  Laconian  pirates. 

But   Kalander,  seeing  him   faint  more  and  more,  with  careful 
speed    conveyed    him    to    the    most    commodious    lodging    in    his 


13392  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 

house;  where,  being  possessed  with  an  extreme  burning  fever, 
he  continued  some  while  with  no  great  hope  of  life:  but  youth 
at  length  got  the  victory  of  sickness,  so  that  in  six  weeks  the 
excellency  of  his  returned  beauty  was  a  creditable  ambassador  of 
his  health ;  to  the  great  joy  of  Kalander,  who,  as  in  this  time  he 
had  by  certain  friends  of  his,  that  dwelt  near  the  sea  in  Messenia, 
set  forth  a  ship  and  a  galley  to  seek  and  succor  Daiphantus,  so 
at  home  did  he  omit  nothing  which  he  thought  might  either 
profit  or  gratify  Palladius. 

For  having  found  in  him  (besides  his  bodily  gifts  beyond  the 
degree  of  admiration)  by  daily  discourses,  which  he  delighted 
himself  to  have  with  him,  a  mind  of  most  excellent  composition, 
a  piercing  wit  quite  void  of  ostentation,  high  erected  thought 
seated  in  a  heart  of  courtesy,  an  eloquence  as  sweet  in  the  utter- 
ing as  slow  to  come  to  the  uttering,  a  behavior  so  noble  as 
gave  a  majesty  to  adversity, — and  all  in  a  man  whose  age  could 
not  be  above  one-and-twenty  years, —  the  good  old  man  was 
even  enamored  of  a  fatherly  love  towards  him;  or  rather  became 
his  servant  by  the  bonds  such  virtue  laid  upon  him,  once  he 
acknowledged  himself  so  to  be,  by  the  badge  of  diligent  attend- 
ance. 

But  Palladius  having  gotten  his  health,  and  only  staying  there 
to  be  in  place  where  he  might  hear  answer  of  the  ships  set 
forth,  Kalander  one  afternoon  led  him  abroad  to  a  well-arrayed 
ground  he  had  behind  his  house,  which  he  thought  to  show 
him  before  his  going,  as  the  place  himself  more  than  in  any 
other  delighted  in.  The  backside  of  the  house  was  neither  field, 
garden,  nor  orchard:  or  rather  it  was  both  field,  garden,  and 
orchard;  for  as  soon  as  the  descending  of  the  stairs  had  deliv- 
ered them  down,  they  came  into  a  place  cunningly  set  with 
trees,  of  the  most  taste-pleasing  fruits:  but  scarcely  they  had 
taken  that  into  their  consideration,  but  that  they  were  suddenly 
stept  into  a  delicate  green;  of  each  side  of  the  green  a  thicket, 
and  behind  the  thickets  again  new  beds  of  flowers,  which  being 
under  the  trees,  the  trees  were  to  them  a  pavilion,  and  they 
to  the  trees  a  mosaical  floor,  so  that  it  seemed  that  Art  therein 
would  needs  be  delightful,  by  counterfeiting  his  enemy  Error  and 
making  order  in  confusion. 

In  the  midst  of  all  the  place  was  a  fair  pond,  whose  shaking 
crystal  was  a  perfect  mirror  to  all  the  other  beauties,  so  that  it 
bare  show  of  two  gardens;  one  in  deed,  the  other  in  shadows, — 
and  in  one  of  the    thickets   was   a    fine    fountain    made    thus:    a 


i 


SIR   PHILIP  SIDNEY  13393 

naked  Venus  of  white  marble,  wherein  the  graver  had  used  such 
cunning  that  the  natural  blue  veins  of  the  marble  were  framed 
in  fit  places,  to  set  forth  the  beautiful  veins  of  her  body.  At  her 
breast  she  had  her  babe  ^neas,  who  seemed,  having  begun  to 
suck,  to  leave  that  to  look  upon  her  fair  eyes,  which  smiled  at 
the  babe's  folly, —  meanwhile  the  breast  running. 

Hard  by  was  a  house  of  pleasure,  built  for  a  summer-retiring 
place;  whither,  Kalander  leading  him,  he  found  a  square  room 
full  of  delightful  pictures,  made  by  most  excellent  workmen  of 
Greece.  There  was  Diana,  when  Actaeon  saw  her  bathing,  in 
whose  cheeks  the  painter  had  set  such  a  color  as  was  mixed 
between  shame  and  disdain;  and  one  of  her  foolish  nymphs,  who 
weeping,  and  withal  lowering,  one  might  see  the  workman  meant 
to  set  forth  tears  of  anger.  In  another  table  was  Atalanta; 
the  posture  of  whose  limbs  was  so  lively  expressed,  that  if  the 
eyes  were  only  judges,  as  they  be  the  only  seers,  one  would 
have  sworn  the  very  picture  had  run.  Besides  many  more,  as  of 
Helena,  Omphale,  lole:  but  in  none  of  them  all  beauty  seemed 
to  speak  so  much  as  in  a  large  table  which  contained  a  comely 
old  man,  with  a  lady  of  middle  age,  but  of  excellent  beauty;  and 
more  excellent  would  have  been  deemed,  but  that  there  stood 
between  them  a  young  maid,  whose  wonderfulness  took  away  all 
beauty  from  her,  but  that  which  it  might  seem  she  gave  her 
back  again  by  her  very  shadow.  And  such  difference  (being 
known  that  it  did  indeed  counterfeit  a  person  living)  was  there 
between  her  and  all  the  other,  though  goddesses,  that  it  seemed 
the  skill  of  the  painter  bestowed  nothing  on  the  other  of  new 
beauty,  but  that  the  beauty  of  her  bestowed  new  skill  on  the 
painter.  Though  he  thought  inquisitiveness  an  uncomely  guest, 
he  could  not  choose  but  ask  who  she  was,  that  bearing  show  of 
one  being  indeed,  could  with  natural  gifts  go  beyond  the  reach 
of  invention.  Kalander  answered  that  it  was  made  for  Philo- 
clea,  the  younger  daughter  of  his  prince,  who  also  with  his  wife 
were  contained  in  that  table;  the  painter  meaning  to  represent 
the  present  condition  of  the  young  lady,  who  stood  watched  by 
an  over-curious  eye  of  her  parents:  and  that  he  would  also 
have  drawn  her  eldest  sister,  esteemed  her  match  for  beauty,  in 
her  shepherdish  attire,  but  that  rude  clown  her  guardian  would 
not  suffer  it ;  neither  durst  he  ask  leave  of  the  prince,  for  fear 
of  suspicion.  Palladius  perceived  that  the  matter  was  wra])ped 
up    in    some    secrecy,   and   therefore    would    for   modesty   demand 


13394  ^^^   PHILIP  SIDNEY 

no  farther:  but  yet  his  countenance  could  not  but  with  dumb  elo- 
quence desire  it;  which  Kalander  perceiving, —  Well  (said  he), 
my  dear  guest,  I  know  your  mind,  and  I  will  satisfy  it:  neither 
will  I  do  it  like  a  niggardly  answerer,  going  no  farther  than  the 
bounds  of  the  question;  but  I  will  discover  unto  you,  as  well 
that  wherein  my  knowledge  is  common  with  others,  as  that  which 
by  extraordinary  means  is  delivered  unto  me;  knowing  so  much 
in  you  (though  not  long  acquainted)  that  I  shall  find  your  ears 
faithful  treasurers.  So  then  sitting  down,  and  sometimes  casting 
his  eye  to  the  picture,  he  thus  spake:  — 

This  country,  Arcadia,  among  all  the  provinces  of  Greece, 
hath  ever  been  had  in  singular  reputation:  partly  for  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  air,  and  other  natural  benefits,  but  principally  for 
the  well-tempered  minds  of  the  people,  who  (finding  that  the 
shining  title  of  glory,  so  much  affected  by  other  nations,  doth 
indeed  help  little  to  the  happiness  of  life)  are  the  only  people 
which,  as  by  their  justice  and  providence,  give  neither  cause  nor 
hope  to  their  neighbors  to  annoy;  so  are  they  not  stirred  with 
false  praise  to  trouble  others'  quiet,  thinking  it  a  small  reward 
for  the  wasting  of  their  own  lives  in  ravening,  that  their  pos- 
terity should  long  after  say  they  had  done  so.  Even  the  Muses 
seem  to  approve  their  good  determination,  by  choosing  this 
country  for  their  chief  repairing-place ;  and  by  bestowing  their 
perfections  so  largely  here,  that  the  very  shepherds  have  their 
fancies  lifted  to  so  high  conceits,  as  the  learned  of  other  nations 
are  content  both  to  borrow  their  names  and  imitate  their  cun- 
ning. 

Here  dwelleth  and  reigneth  this  prince,  whose  picture  you 
see,  by  name  Basilius:  a  prince  of  sufficient  skill  to  govern  so 
quiet  a  country;  where  the  good  minds  of  the  former  princes 
had  set  down  good  laws,  and  the  well  bringing  up  of  the  people 
doth  serve  as  a  most  sure  bond  to  hold  them.  But  to  be  plain 
with  you,  he  excels  in  nothing  so  much  as  the  zealous  love 
of  his  people,  wherein  he  doth  not  only  pass  all  his  own  fore- 
goers,  but  as  I  think,  all  the  princes  living.  Whereof  the  cause 
is,  that  though  he  exceed  not  in  the  virtues  which  get  admira- 
tion, as  depth  of  wisdom,  height  of  courage,  and  largeness  of 
magnificence;  yet  he  is  notable  in  those  which  stir  affection,  as 
truth  of  word,  meekness,  courtesy,  mercifulness,  and  liberality. 

He  being  already  well  stricken  in  years,  married  a  young 
princess,    Gynecia,   daughter    of   the    king    of   Cyprus,    of   notable 


SIR    PHILIP   SIDNEY  13395 

beauty,  as  by  her  picture  you  see:  a  woman  of  great  wit,  and  in 
truth  of  more  princely  virtues  than  her  husband;  of  most  un- 
spotted chastity:  but  of  so  working  a  mind,  and  so  vehement 
spirits,  as  a  man  may  say,  it  was  happy  she  took  a  good  course, 
for  otherwise  it  would  have  been  terrible. 

Of  these  two  are  brought  into  the  world  two  daughters,  so 
beyond  measure  excellent  in  all  the  gifts  allotted  to  reasonable 
creatures,  that  we  may  think  they  were  born  to  show  that  nature 
is  no  stepmother  to  that  sex,  how  much  soever  some  men 
(sharp-witted  only  in  evil  speaking)  have  sought  to  disgrace  them. 
The  elder  is  named  Pamela;  by  many  men  not  deemed  inferior 
to  her  sister:  for  my  part,  when  I  marked  them  both,  methought 
there  was  (if  at  least  such  perfection  may  receive  the  word  of 
more)  more  sweetness  in  Philoclea,  but  more  majesty  in  Pamela; 
methought  love  played  in  Philoclea's  eyes,  and  threatened  in 
Pamela's;  methought  Philoclea's  beauty  only  persuaded,  but  so 
persuaded  as  all  hearts  must  yield;  Pamela's  beauty  used  violence, 
and  such  violence  as  no  heart  could  resist.  And  it  seems  that 
such  proportion  is  between  their  minds:  Philoclea  so  bashful,  as 
though  her  excellences  had  stolen  into  her  before  she  was  aware; 
so  humble,  that  she  will  put  all  pride  out  of  countenance;  in  sum, 
such  proceedings  as  will  stir  hope,  but  teach  hope  good  manners; 
Pamela  of  high  thoughts,  who  avoids  not  pride  with  not  knowing 
her  excellences,  but  by  making  that  one  of  her  excellences,  to  be 
void  of  pride;  her  mother's  wisdom,  greatness,  nobility,  but  (if  I 
can  guess  aright)  knit  with  a  more  constant  temper.  Now  then, 
our  Basilius  being  so  publicly  happy  as  to  be  a  prince,  and  so 
happy  in  that  happiness  as  to  be  a  beloved  prince,  and  so  in  his 
private  estate  blessed  as  to  have  so  excellent  a  wife  and  so  over- 
excellent  children,  hath  of  late  taken  a  course  which  yet  makes 
him  more  spoken  of  than  all  these  blessings.  For,  having  made 
a  journey  to  Delphos  and  safely  returned,  within  short  space  he 
brake  up  his  court  and  retired  —  himself,  his  wife  and  children  — 
into  a  certain  forest  hereby,  which  he  called  his  desert:  wherein 
(besides  an  house  appointed  for  stables,  and  lodgings  for  certain 
persons  of  mean  calling,  who  do  all  household  services)  he  hath 
builded  two  fine  lodges;  in  the  one  of  them  himself  remains  with 
his  young  daughter  Philoclea  (which  was  the  cause  they  three 
were  matched  together  in  this  picture),  without  having  any  other 
creature  living  in  that  lodge  with  him. 


1339^  SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY 


ASTROPHEL   AND   STELLA 

DOUBT  you  to  whom  my  Muse  these  notes  intendeth, 
Which  now  my  breast,  surcharged,  to  music  lendeth! 
To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due, 
Only  in  you  my  song  begins  and  endeth. 

Who  hath  the  eyes  which  marry  state  with  pleasure ! 
Who  keeps  the  key  of  Nature's  chiefest  treasure! 

To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due. 
Only  for  you  the  heaven  forgat  all  measure. 

Who  hath  the  lips  where  wit  in  fairness  reigneth! 
Who  womankind  at  once  both  decks  and  staineth! 

To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due. 
Only  by  you  Cupid  his  crown  maintaineth. 

Who  hath  the  feet  whose  step  all  sweetness  planteth ! 
Who  else,  for  whom  Fame  worthy  trumpets  wanteth! 

To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due, 
Only  to  you  her  sceptre  Venus  granteth. 

Who  hath  the  breast   whose  milk  doth  patience  nourish! 
Whose  grace  is  such,  that  when  it  chides  doth  cherish ! 

To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due. 
Only  through  you  the  tree  of  life  doth  flourish. 

Who  hath  the  hand  which,  without  stroke,  subdueth! 
Who  long-dead  beauty  with  increase  reneweth ! 

To  you,  to  you,   all  song  of  praise  is  due. 
Only  at  you  all  envy  hopeless  rueth. 

Who  hath  the  hair  which,  loosest,  fastest  tieth ! 
Who  makes  a  man  live,  then  glad  when  he  dieth! 

To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due, 
Only  of  you  the  flatterer  never  lieth. 

Who  hath  the  voice  which  soul  from  senses  sunders! 
Whose  force,  but  yours,  the  *bolts  of  beauty  thunders! 

To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due. 
Only  with  you  not  miracles   are  wonders. 

Doubt  you  to  whom  my  Muse  these  notes  intendeth, 
Which  now  my  breast,  o'ercharged,  to  music  lendeth! 

To  you,  to  you,  all  song  of  praise  is  due. 
Only  in  you  my  song  begins  and  endeth. 


SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY  13397 

SONNETS   TO   STELLA 

THE  curious  wits,  seeing  dull  pensiveness 
Bearing  itself  in  my  long-settled  eyes, 
Whence  those  same  fumes  of  melancholy  rise 
With  idle  pains  and  missing  aim  do  guess. 
Some,  that  know  how  my  spring  I  did  address, 

Deem  that  my  Muse  some  fruit  of  knowledge  plies; 
Others,  because  the  prince  of  service  tries, 
Think  that  I  think  State  errors  to  redress. 
But  harder  >udges  judge  ambition's  rage  — 

Scourge  of  itself,  still  climbing  slippery  place  — 
Holds  my  young  brain  captived  in  golden  cage. 

0  fools,  or  over-wise !   alas,  the  race 

Of  all  my  thoughts  hath  neither  stop  nor  start 
But  only  Stella's  eyes  and  Stella's  heart. 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies? 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face : 
What!    may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly  place 

That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries  ? 

Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 

Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case; 

1  read  it  in  thy  looks;   thy  languished  grace 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  moon,  tell  me. 

Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of  wit  ? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be  ? 

Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  possess  ? 
Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness  ? 

Come,  sleep!     O  sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 

The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe; 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 

Th'  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low! 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  press 

Of  those  fierce  darts  despair  at  me  doth  throw, — 
Oh,  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease. 

I  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so: 
Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 

A  chamber  deaf  of  noise  and  blind  of  light, 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head; 

And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace, — thou  shalt  in  me. 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 


13398  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

Because  I  breathe  not  love  to  every  one, 
Nor  do  not  use  set  colors  for  to  wear, 
Nor  nourish  special  locks  of  vowed  hair. 

Nor  give  each  speech  a  full  point  of  a  groan, 

The  courtly  nymphs,  acquainted  with  the  moan 

Of  them  which  in  their  lips  love's  standard  berr, 
*^  What,  he !  '^  say  they  of  me :  "  now  I  dare  swear 

He  cannot  love;   no,  no,  let  him  alone !  *> 

And  think  so  still,  so  Stella  know  my  mind 
Profess  indeed  I  do  not  Cupid's  art; 

But  you,  fair  maids,  at  length  this  true  shall  find. 
That  his  right  badge  is  but  worn  in  the  heart: 

Dumb  swans,  not  chattering  pies,  do  lovers  prove; 

They  love  indeed  who  quake  to  say  they  love. 

Thou  blind  man's  mark,  thou  fool's  self-chosen  snare. 

Fond  fancy's  scum,  and  dregs  of  scattered  thought; 
Band  of  all  evils ;    cradle  of  causeless  care ; 

Thou  web  of  will  whose  end  is  never  wrought  — 
Desire,  desire !     I  have  too  dearly  bought 

With  price  of  mangled  mind  thy  worthless  ware; 
Too  long,  too  long,  asleep  thou  hast  me  brought. 

Who  shouldst  my  mind  to  higher  things  prepare. 
But  yet  in  vain  thou  hast  my  ruin  sought; 

In  vain  thou  mad'st  me  to  vain  things  aspire; 

In  vain  thou  kindlest  all  thy  smoky  fire : 
For  virtue  hath  this  better  lesson  taught  — 

Within  myself  to  seek  my  only  hire. 

Desiring  naught  but  how  to  kill  desire. 

Leave  me,  O  love  which  reachest  but  to  dust; 

And  thou,  my  mind,  aspire  to  higher  things;. 
Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust ; 

Whatever  fades,  but  fading  pleasure  brings. 
Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  tumble  all  thy  might 

To  that  sweet  yoke  where  lasting  freedoms  be. 
Which  breaks  the  clouds  and  opens  forth  the  light, 

That  doth  but  shine  and  give  us  sight  to  see. 
Oh,  take  fast  hold ;  -let  that  light  be  thy  guide 

In  this  small  course  which  birth  draws  out  to  death; 
And  think  how  evil  becometh  him  to  slide. 

Who  seeketh  heaven  and  comes  of  heavenly  breath. 
Then  farewell,  world !   thy  uttermost  I  see : 
Eternal  Love,  maintain  thy  life  in  mel 


SIENKIEWICZ 


13399 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

(1846-1916)   . 

BY  CHARLES  HARVEY  GENUNG 

iiTH  all  the  confidence  that  can  ever  attach  to  human  judg- 
ment upon  a  recent  author,  Sienkiewicz  may  be  pronounced 
the  greatest  creative  genius  in  the  field  of  fiction  at  the 
end  of  the  nineteenth  century.  In  his  own  country  a  clique  of  Polish 
critics  applied  to  him  the  policy  of  silence,  but  they  had  underesti- 
mated the  force  that  they  strove  to  check.  With  his  splendid  trilogy 
of  historical  novels,  Sienkiewicz  sat  self-crowned  upon  the  throne  of 
Polish  literature,  left  vacant  by  the  death  of  Mickiewicz  thirty  years 
before.  It  was  with  translations  of  these  novels  that  he  made  his 
first  appearance  before  the  English-speaking  world;  and  at  once  was 
felt  the  presence  of  the  supreme  master  through  the  veil  of  an  alien 
tongue  and  the  mists  of  a  remote  time  and  people.  It  has  been  said 
that  the  creation  of  a  new  character  is  as  important  as  the  birth  of 
a  new  man.  If  it  is  the  highest  achievement  of  art  to  create  a 
new  human  character  and  endow  it  with  inexhaustible  freshness 
and  vitality,  Sienkiewicz  securely  takes  his  rank  among  the  greatest 
artists.  One  who  has  wandered  through  that  wonder-world  of  Poland 
in  the  seventeenth  century  can  never  again  be  quite  the  same :  he  is 
one  that  has  had  a  vision.  The  characters  who  ruled  in  that  rug- 
ged time  enter  the  mind  through  these  inspired  pages,  and  like  the 
gods  of  Greece  and  the  heroes  of  Homer,  take  up  their  abode  in  the 
realms  of  the  fancy  forever. 

Henryk  Sienkiewicz  was  born  at  Wola  Okrzejska  in  Lithuania, 
in  1846.  The  facts  obtainable  about  his  life  are  meagre.  He  studied 
at  Warsaw,  and  from  the  first  gave  himself  wholly  to  letters.  For  a 
time  he  was  editor  of  the  Niwa.  As  a  writer  of  fiction  he  first 
came  before  the  public  in  1872,  with  a  humorous  tale,  <  No  Man  is  a 
Prophet  in  his  Own  Country.*  In  1876  he  came  to  America;  and  in 
southern  California,  in  the  midst  of  that  circle  of  which  Madame 
Modjeska  was  the  centre  and  the  inspiration,  he  met  many  of  the 
characters  and  had  many  of  the  experiences  that  have  received 
artistic  immortality  in  his  works.  It  was  there  that  he  found  the 
prototype  of  the  inimitable  Zagloba.  Under  the  pen-name  of  « Lit- 
wos,*>  he  wrote  letters  of  travel  for  the  Gazeta  Polska  which  attracted 


J2400  HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

general  attention.  Several  stories  appeared  tinder  the  same  name, 
some  of  them  dealing  with  characteristically  American  scenes.  In 
1880  he  published  his  first  large  work,  <  Niewola  Tartarska  >  (Tartar 
Slavery).  With  this  he  served  his  apprenticeship  in  the  historical 
novel.  Four  years  later  came  the  first  of  his  great  masterpieces, 
*■  Ogniem  i  Mieczem  ^  (With  Fire  and  Sword),  and  he  entered  at  once 
into. his  kingdom.  In  1886  appeared  <Potop^  (The  Deluge),  and  in 
1887  <  Pan  Wolodyjowski  >  "(Pan  Michael).  To  the  Poles  themselves 
these  books  represent  the  finest  achievement  of  prose  fiction  in  the 
language;  and  they  are  unsurpassed  by  the  best  historical  romances 
of  the  world's  literature.  As  if  to  show  his  boundless  versatility,  the 
author  next  published  the  profound  psychological  novel  *■  Bez  Dog- 
matu)  (Without  Dogma).  His  two  next  works  were  (Rodzina  Polan- 
ieckich)  (Children  of  the  Soil)  (1S94)  and  (Quo  Vadis)  (1895),  both  of 
which  immediately  secured  a  popular  success  in  English.  For  a  time 
Sienkiewicz  edited  the  Slowoc  in  Warsaw;  but  his  genius  was  restless. 
He  said  himself  that  he  was  something  of  a  gipsy;  travel  was  a  passion: 
but  Cracow  and  Warsaw  were  the  cities  to  which  he  returned.  After 
his  long  sojourn  in  California  he -went  to  Africa;  and  his  wanderings 
led  him  over  all  of  Europe  and  far  into  the  Orient.  But  he  was  no  idle 
rover:  he  plunged  into  the  midst  of  men  and  events,  and  described 
with  a  realist's  precision  what  he  observed  with  a  poet's  discernment. 
Freedom  and  independence  were  everything  to  him. 

Of  the  short  stories  of  Sienkiewicz,  the  best  are  those  which 
deal  with  Polish  scenes  and  people.  The  stories  of  American  life, 
as  <  Lillian  Morris  >  and  <  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  >  lack  the  intimate 
touch.  The  Polish  tales  are  firmly  drawn  and  faithful  pictures, 
revealing  the  closest  knowledge  of  the  life  described  and  of  the 
modes  of  thought  that  condition  it.  They  cover  a  varied  field. 
Light-hearted  humor  and  deep  feeling  distinguish  the  story  ot  artist 
life  entitled  <  The  Third.  >  It  is  told  in  the  first  person  by  a  young 
painter,  whose  impulsive  nature  twice  leads  him  into  error  in  the 
choice  of  a  sweetheart.  In  all  his  amusing  entanglements  a  distin- 
guished actress  is  his  friend  and  adviser;  they  are  of  the  same  art- 
istic temperament:  at  last  the  obvious  dawns  upon  him  that  his  true 
love  is  this  "third."  In  contrast  to  the  gayety  of  this  tale  stands 
the  sad  <  Na  Marne,>  a  story  of  student  life  in  Kieff.  The  title 
may  be  paraphrased  as  ^Frittered  Away.^  It  is  a  powerful  picture 
of  the  struggles,  temptations,  and  ambitions  in  the  storm  and  stress 
of  university  life.  In  it  the  solution  of  the  highest  problems  is 
attempted,  and  the  author  does  not  hesitate  coldly  to  analyze  the 
loftiest  human  emotions;  but  never  cynically,  for  through  it  all 
breathes  an  atmosphere  of  poetry.  The  famous  Bartek  <Zwyciezca^ 
(The   Victor)   tells  of  a  poor  Polish   peasant  who  was  forced  to   fight 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ  13401 

under  the  Prussian  eagle  at  Gravelotte  and  Sedan.  After  performing 
marvels  of  blind  valor,  he  went  home  only  to  become  the  victim  of 
the  repressive  injustice  of  the  Prussian  government.  Strongest  of  all 
the  stories,  in  the  judgment  of  the  Poles  themselves,  is  ^  God's  Will,* 
from  the  collection  of  ^  Szkice  Weglem^  (Charcoal  Sketches).  It  is  a 
tale  of  village  life  in  Poland,  and  the  secrets  of  local  administration 
are  ruthlessly  laid  bare, —  its  corruption,  stupidity,  and  helplessness. 
Of  all  these  elements  the  village  clerk  avails  himself  to  accomplish 
his  designs  upon  a  handsome,  honest  peasant  woman,  who  has  a 
husband  and  child.  Through  sufferings  infinitely  pitiable,  —  for  in  her 
simple-mindedness  she  does  not  know  that  her  persecutor  has  no 
power  to  carry  out  his  threats, —  she  is  at  last  brought  to  yield  that 
she  may  save  her  husband;  and  her  husband  kills  her.  The  story 
moves  to  its  catastrophe  with  the  inevitableness  of  a  force  of  nature. 
The  tragedy  is  enlivened  by  many  scenes  of  the  sprightliest  humor; 
always,  however,  directly  bearing  upon  the  relentless  development  of 
the  plot.  The  diverting  description  of  the  village  court  in  session 
is  a  triumph  of  realistic  drawing.  The  political  significance  of  the 
story  arotised  the  opposition  of  the  aristocratic  and  clerical  party, 
whose  policy  of  non-intervention  in  local  affairs  was  therein  so  sav- 
agely attacked.  But  it  soon  became  obvious  that  Sienkiewicz  had 
something  victorious  in  his  nature;  that  he  was  a  supreme  artist, 
taking  his  materials  where  he  found  them  and  treating  them  as  his 
genius  chose.  The  author  of  *  God's  Will  *  was  the  author  also  of 
that  tender  bit  of  pathos  'Yanko  the  Musician,^  the  story  of  the  poor 
boy  who  struggled  to  express  his  inner  aspirations  but  <^  died  with  all 
his  music  in  him.'^  Now  over  his  grave  the  willows  whisper.  With 
the  same  tender  touch  was  written  <  The  Old  Servant,*  which  forms 
the  introduction  to  ^Hania,  *  a  story  of  love  and  renunciation.  Every- 
where there  is  a  faithful  reproduction  of  the  hopes  and  sorrows  and 
faults  of  the  Polish  people.  For  his  thought  the  author  always  finds 
the  right  form,  and  for  his  feeling  the  right  figure. 

Sienkiewicz  had  won  the  supreme  place  among  the  short-story 
writers  of  his  native  land.  The  historical  trilogy  gave  him  a  like 
place  among  the  novelists  on  a  larger  scale.  Then,  from  those  won- 
derful pictures  of  the  vigorous  and  valiant  men  of  action  who  repre- 
sented the  old  Polish  commonwealth,  he  turned  to  the  delineation  of 
a  modern  Pole  in  <  Without  Dogma.*  The  book  is  the  diary  of  the 
hero.  It  is  the  record  of  a  silent  conflict  with  his  own  soul,  full  of 
profound  observations,  subtle  philosophy,  lofty  wisdom  ;  but  the  pro- 
tagonist is  passive,  "a  genius  without  a  portfolio."  He  reveals  every 
cranny  of  his  mind's  dwelling-place :  the  loft}'  galleries  whence  he 
has  a  wide  panorama  of  humanity  and  the  world ;  the  stately  halls 
filled  with  the  treasures  of  science  and  art;  the  dungeons  also  where 


I3402  HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

the  evil  impulses  fret  and  sins  are  bred.  But  over  the  whole  man- 
sion of  his  soul  lies  a  heavy  enervating  atmosphere:  the  galleries 
afford  a  spectacle  but  stimulate  no  aspirations;  the  treasures  of 
knowledge  and  beauty  feed  a  selfish  pleasure  quickly  cloyed;  even 
the  evil  impulses  rarely  pass  into  action.  This  is  the  modern  miasma 
which  he  calls  "Slavic  unproductivity.'^  It  is  the  over-cultivation 
which  is  turning  to  decay,  the  refinement  of  self-analysis  that  lames 
the  will.  The  hero  is  a  Hamlet  in  the  guise  of  a  young  Polish  noble- 
man of  the  late  nineteenth  century.  His  only  genuine  emotion  is  his 
love  for  Aniela;  but  this  he  doubts  and  philosophizes  into  apathy. 
She  marries  another,  loving  him.  Obstacles  arouse  him,  and  now  he 
puts  forth  an  effort  to  win  her.  Her  simplicity  and  faithfulness,  her 
dogma,  saves  him  who  is  without  dogma.  The  futility  of  his  life  is 
symbolized  in  the  words — ^'Aniela  died  this  morning. ^^  The  man 
cannot  command  our  respect  any  more  than  Wilhelm  Meister  can,  or 
Lermontov's  <*  Hero  of  our  Own  Time»;  but  the  interest  of  the  psy- 
chological analysis  is  irresistible.  There  is  in  it  a  hint  of  Bourget; 
but  in  the  quality  of  his  psychology  Sienkiewicz  surpasses  Bourget,  as 
he  surpasses  Zola  and  Flaubert  in  the  quality  of  his  realism.  He  has 
been  called  a  psychic  realist,  and  'Without  Dogma'  is  the  greatest 
psychological  romance  that  the  subtle  mind  of  Poland  has  produced. 
'Children  of  the  SoiP  has  in  it  certain  echoes  of  the  greater  work: 
It  is  a  modern  story  also,  turning  upon  the  marriage  of  a  man  to  a 
woman  whom  he  thinks  he  loves,  and  whom  after  much  sin  and  sor- 
row he  learns  to  love  at  last.  'Quo  Vadis, '  the  next  work,  is  a  tale 
of  the  times  of  Nero.  Paganism  and  Christianity  are  contrasted.  The 
sympathy  of  the  artist  is  naturally  drawn  to  the  ancient  pagan,  who 
devoted  his  life  to  the  worship  of  beauty,  and  faced  death  with  a 
stoic's  calmness.  The  character  of  Petronius  Arbiter  is  the  master- 
piece of  the  book.  This  conflict  between  two  forms  of  civilization 
has  long  been  a  favorite  theme  with  the  Polish  poets:  tfie  dawn  of  a 
new  era  while  the  lights  of  the  old  still  blaze. 

With  this  array  of  works,  Sienkiewicz  would  take  honorable  rank 
among  the  best  writers  of  his  generation ;  but  his  title  to  a  place 
among  the  great  creators  rests  upon  none  of  these.  That  claim  is 
based  upon  the  famous  historical  trilogy,  'With  Fire  and  Sword,' 
'The  Deluge,' and  'Pan  Michael.'  Poland  was  the  bulwark  of  Christ- 
ian civilization  on  the  east.  Against  the  Tartar  hordes  and  Mongolian 
bands  the  gallant  commonwealth  maintained  a  stout  resistance  for 
centuries :  but  her  warlike  neighbors  did  not  recognize  her  importance 
as  the  defender  of  the  Christian  marches;  she  was  constantly  exposed 
to  encroachments  on  the  west.  In  the  moment  of  her  greatest  peril 
the  Swedes  attacked  her  from  that  quarter.  These  wonderful  wars 
of    the    seventeenth    century    are    the    theme    of    the    trilogy.     In    the 


HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ  13403 

descriptions  of  innumerable  battles  and  sieges,  Sienkiewicz  displays 
an  astounding  fertility  of  invention  and  an  infinite  variety  of  treat- 
ment. These  scenes  stamp  themselves  indelibly  upon  the  memory 
with  all  the  savage  beauty  and  the  thrilling  horror  of  war.  Amid  the 
bewildering  rush  and  whirl  of  events,  and  in  the  breathless  excite- 
ment of  individual  destinies,  the  one  animating  thought  is  national 
glory;  and  to  this,  life  and  love  are  freely  sacrificed.  But  splendid  as 
the  martial  pageant  is,  revealing  in  itself  a  master  hand  of  incom- 
parable skill,  the  historical  element  is  after  all  only  the  background 
before  which  heroes  of  Homeric  mold  make  proof  of  their  manhood. 
It  is  in  the  creation  of  living  human  beings  that  Sienkiewicz  exhibits 
his  highest  genius.  Nothing  could  surpass  in  vital  force,  originality 
of  conception,  and  convincing  realism  of  presentation,  the  character 
of  Zagloba,  bibulous  but  steadfast,  cowardly  but  courageous,  boasting 
but  competent,  lying  but  honest, —  an  incomparable  character,  to  be 
laughed  at,  admired,  and  loved ;  or  the  plucky  little  hoyden  and  dare- 
devil Basia,  who  marries  Pan  Michael  out  of  hand.  And  these  are 
but  two  of  a  dazzling  galaxy  of  creations  that  hold  the  imagination 
enthralled.  From  the  magic  of  Sienkiewicz  there  is  no  escape ;  firmly 
he  grasps  his  wand,  and  once  within  the  circle  he  describes,  the 
charm  can  never  be  eluded.  There  is  here  all  the  tense  excitement 
of  intrigue  and  danger  and  hairbreadth  escapes  that  fascinate  in 
Dumas;  there  is  the  same  joy  in  the  courage  and  sagacity  of  heroes 
that  stimulate  in  Dumas ;  but  in  Sienkiewicz  there  is  also  a  deep 
psychological  interest,  the  working  out  of  an  inner  problem,  the 
struggle  of  noble  minds  between  selfishness  and  duty,  which  raise 
these  novels  out  of  the  class  of  romantic  tales  of  adventure  into 
that  higher  region  of  poetry  where  we  breathe  the  air  that  swept 
the  plains  of  Troy.  These  books  have  an  almost  conscious  Homeric 
touch ;  the  very  form  of  the  similes  is  Homeric.  But  there  is  a  flavor 
of  Shakespeare  also:  if  Michael  is  a  modern  Hector,  Zagloba  is  a 
Polish  Falstaff.  In  every  case  it  is  only  of  the  greatest  that  we  are 
reminded. 

Each  of  the  three  novels  deals  with  a  different  campaign;  each 
has  its  own  central  figure;  each  sets  its  own  psychological  task.  The 
first  deals  with  the  uprising  of  the  Zaporojians:  the  interest  centres 
in  the  noble  but  perhaps  too  highly  idealized  Pan  Yan;  the  struggle 
is  between  his  duty  to  Poland  and  his  love  for  Helena,  whom  the 
Cossacks  have  carried  off.  Obviously  the  author's  interest  in  his 
characters  grows  as  he  proceeds,  and  they  become  more  vivid  and 
convincing  with  each  chapter.  Zagloba,  to  be  sure,  is  there  with  all 
his  qualities  from  the  beginning;  but  the  little  knight.  Pan  Michael, 
the  incomparable  swordsman,  takes  up  more  and  more  of  the  fore- 
ground, while  in  the  second  and  third  of  the  novels  Pan  Yan  and  his 


T,^„.  HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

Helena  become  mere  shadows.  <  The  Deluge  *  deals  with  the  Swedish 
invasion  and  the  dissensions  among  the  Poles  themselves;  for  to  this 
noble  and  gifted  race.  Goethe's  Xenion  applies  with  sad  force:  — 

«Each,  if  you  take  him  alone,  is  fairly  shrewd  and  discerning; 
Let  them  in  council  meet,  blockhead  is  the  result. >^ 

They  triumphed  in  spite  of  their  own  traitors,  by  sheer  native  force 
and  exuberance  of  strength.  The  hero  of  this  second  novel  is  Kmita, 
psychologically  the  most  interesting  of  them  all.  In  the  wild  days 
of  his  thoughtless  youth  he  had  committed  crimes;  he  was  easily 
won  over  to  the  service  of  the  traitor  Radziwill,  for  he  was  ill- 
informed  and  inexperienced.  At  last  his  better  nature  awakes  and 
his  eyes  are  opened:  he  finds  himself  disgraced  and  his  career  ruined; 
he  resolves  to  begin  life  anew  under  an  assumed  name,  and  win  his 
way  to  honor  or  find  absolution  in  death.  The  book  is  largely  a 
story  of  this  struggle.  The  crown  of  the  series  is  <  Pan  Michael.* 
The  subject  is  border  warfare  on  the  wind-swept  steppes,  and  the 
Tartar  invasion  which  ended  disastrously  for  Poland  in  the  fall  of 
Kamenyets.  Like  a  true  artist,  Sienkiewicz  in  the  gloom  of  this  sad 
catastrophe  has  made  a  reconcilement.  At  the  funeral  of  Michael  the 
commanding  figure  of  Sobieski  kneels  beside  the  catafalque;  and  it 
was  Sobieski  who  a  few  years  later  turned  back  the  tide  of  Turkish 
invasion  from  the  gates  of  Vienna.  Pan  Michael  himself  is  of  course 
the  hero  of  this  closing  volume.  The  woman  he  loved  has  died; 
and  the  little  knight,  grown  melancholy,  has  entered  a  monastery. 
Zagloba  in  a  delicious  scene  lures  him  forth  again.  At  once  the 
impressionable  warrior  falls  in  love ;  but  he  is  obliged  to  renounce 
his  love,  yielding  to  his  friend  Ketling.  It  is  at  this  moment  that  the 
wholly  delightful  little  Basia  throws  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
with  the  utmost  emphasis  asserts  her  own  willingness  to  marry  him. 
«  God  has  wrought  a  miracle,  >>  says  Pan  Michael  solemnly.  Through 
the  terrors  of  border  warfare  'and  the  horrors  of  sieges  this  fearless 
devoted  woman  accompanies  him;  she  is  all  his  joy,  the  cr6wn  of 
his  life.  But  Poland  demands  another  sacrifice,  and  Michael  brings 
it  without  hesitation.  He  goes  to  a  self-determined  death  with  only 
this  message  to  his  wife:  « Remember,  this  life  is  nothing. »  The 
lofty  sublimity  of  this  conclusion  is  wholly  worthy  of  the  noble  thought 
that  dominates  it  all:  it  is  the  apotheosis  of  Polish  patriotism.  In 
Sienkiewicz,  as  in  all  the  great  Polish  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
love  of  country,  pride  in  its  glorious  past,  and  hope  unquenched  for 
the  future,  are  the  great  inspiring  forces.  There  is  a  solemn  pathos 
in  the  words  with  which  the  author  lays  down  his  pen:  ((Here  ends  this 
series  of  books,  written  in  the  course  of  a  number  of  years  and  with 
no  little  toil,  for  the  strengthening  of  hearts.)) 


» 


HENRY  K    SIENKIEWICZ  13405 

In  1S99  appeared  (The  Knights  of  the  Cross,)  a  two-volume  romance 
of  Poland  and  Germany  showing  how  the  growth  of  Christianity  vv^as 
retarded  by  crimes  committed  in  the  name  of  the  Church.  (On  the 
Field  of  Glory)  returned  to  the  period  of  the  great  trilogy  and  was 
followed  by  (The  Desert  and  Wilderness)  and  (Whirlpools,)  but  none 
of  these  was  equal  in  interest  and  popular  favor  to  the  works  analyzed 
above. 

^Sienkiewicz  was  married  three  times;  his  third  wife  was  the  Countess 
Babaka.  In  1905  the  Nobel  prize  of  $45,000  was  awarded  to  him  for 
distinguished  work  in  idealistic  literature.  He  died  suddenly  at  the 
Grand  Hotel  du  Lac  at  Vevey,  Switzerland,  on  November  15th,  1916. 


ZAGLOBA  CAPTURES  A  BANNER 

From    <With    Fire    and    Sword.*      Copyright    1890,  by    Jeremiah    Curtin.      Re- 
printed by  permission  of  Little,  Brown  <S:  Co.,  publishers 

[At  the  decisive  moment  in  a  battle  between  the  Polish  forces  under  Prince 
Yeremi  and  the  peasant  mob  of  the  Zaporojians,  the  hussars  of  the  former 
are  ordered  to  advance.  Zagloba,  reluctant,  alarmed,  indignant,  is  carried 
forward  with  them.] 

WHEN  the  hussars  moved  forward,  Zagloba,  though  he  had 
short  breath  and  did  not  like  a  throng,  galloped  with  the 
others,  because  in  fact  he  could  not  do  otherwise  without 
danger  of  being  trampled  to  death.  He  flew  on  therefore,  closing 
his  eyes;  and  through  his  head  there  flew  with  lightning  speed 
the  thought,  "Stratagem  is  nothing,  stratagem  is  nothing:  the 
stupid  win,  the  wise  perish!**  Then  he  was  seized  with  spite 
against  the  war,  against  the  Cossacks,  the  hussars,  and  every 
one  else  in  the  world.  He  began  to  curse,  to  pray.  The  wind 
whistled  in  his  ears,  the  breath  was  hemmed  in  his  breast.  Sud- 
denly his  horse  struck  against  something;  he  felt  resistance. 
Then  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  what  did  he  see  ?  Scythes,  sabres, 
flails,  a  crowd  of  inflamed  faces,  eyes,  mustaches, —  and  all  indefi- 
nite, unknown,  all  trembling,  galloping,  furious.  Then  he  was 
transported  with  rage  against  those  enemies,  because  they  are  not 
going  to  the  devil,  because  they  are  rushing  up  to  his  face  and 
forcing  him  to  fight.  "You  wanted  it,  now  you  have  it,"  thought 
he,  and  he  began  to  slash  blindly  on  every  side.  Sometimes 
he  cut  the  air,  and  sometimes  he  felt  that  his  blade  had  sunk 
into  something  soft.  At  the  same  time  he  felt  that  he  was  still 
living,   and   this  gave  him  extraordinary  hope.      "vSlay!   kill!**   he 


13406 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 


roared  like  a  buffalo.  At  last  those  frenzied  faces  vanished  from 
his  eyes,  and  in  their  places  he  saw  a  multitude  of  visages,  tops 
of  caps,  and  the  shouts  almost  split  his  ears.  "Are  they  fleeing  ?  ** 
shot  through  his  head.  **  Yes !  **  Then  daring  sprang  up  in 
him  beyond  measure.  "Scoundrels!*^  he  shouted,  "is  that  the  way 
you  meet  a  noble  ?  **  He  sprang  among  the  fleeing  enemy,  passed 
many,  and  entangled  in  the  crowd,  began  to  labor  with  greater 
presence  of  mind  now. 

Meanwhile  his  comrades  pressed  the  Cossacks  to  the  bank  of 
the  Sula,  covered  pretty  thickly  with  trees,  and  drove  them  along 
the  shore  to  the  embankment, —  taking  no  prisoners,  for  there 
was  no  time. 

Suddenly  Zagloba  felt  that  his  horse  began  to  spread  out 
under  him;  at  the  same  time  something  heavy  fell  on  him  and 
covered  his  whole  head,  so  that  he  was  completely  enveloped  in 
darkness. 

"Oh,  save  me!**  he  cried,  beating  the  horse  with  his  heels. 

The  steed,  however,  apparently  wearied  with  the  weight  of  the 
rider,  only  groaned  and  stood  in  one  place. 

Zagloba  heard  the  screams  and  shouts  of  the  horsemen  rush- 
ing around  him ;  then  that  whole  hurricane  swept  by,  and  all  was 
in  apparent  quiet. 

Again  thoughts  began  to  rush  through  his  head  with  the 
swiftness  of  Tartar  arrows :  "  What  is  this  ?  What  has  happened  ? 
Jesus  and  Mary,  I  am  in  captivity!** 

On  his  forehead  drops  of  cold  sweat  came  out.  '  Evidently  his 
head  was  bound  just  as  he  had  once  bound  Bogun.  That  weight 
which  he  feels  on  his  shoulder  is  the  hand  of  a  Cossack.  But 
why  don't  they  hang  him  or  kill  him  ?  Why  is  he  standing  in 
one  place  ? 

"  Let  me  go,  you  scoundrel !  **  cried  he  at  last,  with  a  muffled 
voice. 

Silence, 

"Let  me  go!     I'll  spare  your  life.     Let  me  go,  I  say!'* 

No  answer. 

Zagloba  struck  into  the  sides  of  his  horse  again  with  his  heels, 
but  again  without  result;  the  prodded  beast  only  stretched  out 
wider  and  remained  in  the   same  place. 

Finally  rage  seized  the  unfortunate  captive;  and  drawing  a 
knife  from  the  sheath  that  hung  at  his  belt,  he  gave  a  terrible 
stab  behind.     But  the  knife  only  cut  the  air. 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ  1^407 

Then  Zagloba  pulled  with  both  hands  at  the  covering  which 
bound  his  head,  and  tore  it  in  a  moment.      What  is  this  ? 

No  Cossack.  Deserted  all  around.  Only  in  the  distance  was 
to  be  seen  in  the  smoke  the  red  dragoons  of  Volodyovski  flying 
past;  and  farther  on,  the  glittering  armor  of  the  hussars  pursuing 
the  remnant  of  the  defeated,  who  were  retreating  from  the  field 
toward  the  water.  At  Zagloba's  feet  lay  a  Cossack  regimental 
banner.  Evidently  the  fleeing  Cossack  had  dropped  it  so  that 
the  staff  hit  Zagloba's  shoulder,   and   the   cloth   covered  his  head. 

Seeing  all  this,  and  understanding  it  perfectly,  that  hero  re- 
gained his  presence  of  mind  completely. 

*'  Oh,  ho !  ^^  said  he,  ^'  I  have  captured  a  banner.  How  is  this  ? 
Didn't  I  capture  it  ?  If  justice  is  not  defeated  in  this  battle, 
then  I  am  sure  of  a  reward.  Oh,  you  scoundrels!  it  is  your  luck 
that  my  horse  gave  out!  I  did  not  know  myself  when  I  thought 
I  was  greater  in  strategy  than  in  bravery.  I  can  be  of  some 
higher  use  in  the  army  than  eating  cakes.  Oh,  God  save  us! 
some  other  crowd  is  rushing  on.  Don't  come  here,  dog-brothers; 
don't  come  this  way!  May  the  wolves  eat  this  horse!  Kill! 
slay !  » 

Indeed  a  new  band  of  Cossacks  were  rushing  toward  Zagloba, 
raising  unearthly  voices,  closely  pursued  by  the  armored  men  of 
Polyanovski.  And  perhaps  Zagloba  would  have  found  his  death 
under  the  hoofs  of  their  horses,  had  it  not  been  that  the  hussars 
of  Skshetuski,  having  finished  those  whom  they  had  been  pur- 
suing, turned  to  take  between  two  fires  those  onrushing  parties. 
Seeing  this,  the  Zaporojians  ran  toward  the  water,  only  to  find 
death  in  the  swamps  and  deep  places  after  escaping  the  sword. 
Those  who  fell  on  their  knees  begging  for  quarter  died  under 
the  steel.  The  defeat  was  terrible  and  complete,  but  most  ter- 
rible on  the  embankment.  All  who  passed  that,  were  swept  away 
in  the  half-circle  left  by  the  forces  of  the  prince.  Those  who  did 
not  pass,  fell  under  the  continual  fire  of  Vurtsel's  cannon  and  the 
guns  of  the  German  infantry.  They  could  neither  go  forward 
nor  backward;  for  Krivonos  urged  on  still  new  regiments,  which, 
pushing  forward,  closed  the  only  road  to  escape.  It  seemed  as 
though  Krivonos  had  sworn  to  destroy  his  own  men;  who  stifled, 
trampled,  and  fought  one  another,  fell,  sprang  into  the  water  on 
both  sides,  and  were  drowned.  On  one  side  were  black  masses 
of  fugitives,  and  on  the  other  masses  advancing;  in  the  middle, 
piles  and  mountains  and  rows  of  dead  bodies;  groans,  screams, 
men  deprived  of  speech;    the  madness  of  terror,  disorder,   chaos. 


t34o8 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 


The  whole   pond  was   full   of   men   and   horses;   the  water   over- 
flowed the  banks. 

At  times  the  artillery  was  silent.  Then  the  embankment, 
like  the  mouth  of  a  cannon,  threw  forth  crowds  of  Zaporojians 
and  the  mob,  who  rushed  over  the  half-circle  and  went  under  the 
swords  of  the  cavalry  waiting  for  them.  Then  Vurtsel  began  to 
play  again  with  his  rain  of  iron  and  lead;  the  Cossack  reinforce- 
ment barred  the  embankment.  Whole  hours  were  spent  in  these 
bloody  struggles. 

Krivonos,  furious,  foaming  at  the  mouth,  did  not  give  up  the 
battle  yet,  and  hurried  thousands  of  men  to  the  jaws  of  death. 

Yeremi,  on  the  other  side,  in  silver  armor,  sat  on  his  horse, 
on  a  lofty  mound  called  at  that  time  the  Kruja  Mogila,  and 
looked  on.  His  face  was  calm ;  his  eye  took  in  the  whole  em- 
bankment, pond,  banks  of  the  Sluch,  and  extended  to  the  place 
in  which  the  enormous  tabor  of  Krivonos  stood  wrapped  in  the 
bluish  haze  of  the  distance.  The  eyes  of  the  prince  never  left 
that  collection  of  wagons.  At  last  he  turned  to  the  massive  voe- 
voda  of  Kieff,  and  said:  — 

"  We  shall  not  capture  the  tabor  to-day.  ** 

**  How  ?     You  wished  to  —  ** 

^^Time   is   flying   quickly.     It   is   too   late.      See!   it   is   almost 


evening.  *^ 


In  fact,  from  the  time  the  skirmishers  went  out,  the  battle, 
kept  up  by  the  stubbornness  of  Krivonos,  had  lasted  already  so 
long  that  the  sun  had  but  an  hour  left  of  its  whole  daily  half- 
circle,  and  inclined  to  its  setting.  The  light,  lofty,  small  clouds, 
announcing  fair  weather  and  scattered  over  the  sky  like  white- 
fleeced  lambs,  began  to  grow  red  and  disappear  in  groups  from 
the  field  of  heaven.  The  flow  of  Cossacks  to  the  embankment 
stopped  gradually,  and  those  regiments  that  had  already  come 
upon  it  retreated  in  dismay   and  disorder. 

The  battle  was  ended;  and  ended  because  the  enraged  crowd 
fell  upon  Krivonos  at  last,  shouting  with  despair  and  madness:  — 

"Traitor!  you  are  destroying  us.  You  bloody  dog!  We  will 
bind  you  ourselves,  and  give  you  up  to  Yeremi,  and  thus  secure 
our  lives.     Death  to  you,  not  to  us !  *' 

"  To-morrow  I  will  give  you  the  prince  and  all  his  army,  or 
perish  myself,'^  answered  Krivonos. 

But  the  hoped-for  to-morrow  had  yet  to  come,  and  the  pres- 
ent to-day  was  a  day  of  defeat  and  disorder.  Several  thousand 
of  the  best  warriors  of  the  lower  country,  not  counting  the  mob. 


HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ  13409 

lay  on  the  field  of  battle,  or  were  drowned  in  the  pond  and 
river.  Nearly  two  thousand  were  taken  prisoners;  fourteen  colo- 
nels were  killed,  not  counting  sotniks,  essauls,  and  other  elders. 
Pulyan,  next  in  command  to  Krivonos,  had  fallen  into  the  hands 
of  the  enemy  alive,  but  with  broken  ribs. 

"To-morrow  we  will  cut  them  all  up,'^  said  Krivonos.  "I 
will  neither  eat   nor  drink   till  it  is  done.'* 

In  the  opposite  camp  the  captured  banners  were  thrown  down 
at  the  feet  of  the  terrible  prince.  Each  of  the  captors  brought 
his  own,  so  that  they  formed  a  considerable  crowd, —  altogether 
forty.  When  Zagloba  passed  by,  he  threw  his  down  with  such 
force  that  the  staff  split.  Seeing  this,  the  prince  detained  him, 
and  asked :  — 

"And  you  captured  that  banner  with  your  own  hands  ?  '* 

"At  your  service,  your  Highness. '* 

"  I  see  that  you  are  not  only  a  Ulysses,  but  an  Achilles.  ** 

"  I  am  a  simple  soldier,  but  I  serve  under  Alexander  of 
Macedon.  ** 

"  Since  you  receive  no  wages,  the  treasurer  will  pay  you,  in 
addition  to  what  you  have  had,  two  hundred  ducats  for  this  hon- 
orable exploit. '* 

Zagloba  seized  the  prince  by  the  knees,  and  said,  "  Your  favor 
is  greater  than  my  bravery,  which  would  gladly  hide  itself  be- 
hind its  own   modesty.* 

A  scarcely  visible  smile  wandered  over  the  dark  face  of 
Skshetuski;  but  the  knight  was  silent,  and  even  later  on  he 
never  said  anything  to  the  prince,  or  any  one  else,  of  the  fears 
of  Zagloba  before  the  battle:  but  Zagloba  himself  walked  away 
with  such  threatening  mien  that,  seeing  him,  the  soldiers  of  the 
other  regiments  pointed  at  him,  saying:  — 

"He  is  the  man  who  did  most  to-day." 

Night  came.  On  both  sides  of  the  river  and  the  pond,  thou 
sands  of  fires  were  burning,  and  smoke  rose  to  the  sky  in  col- 
umns. The  wearied  soldiers  strengthened  themselves  with  food 
and  gorailka,  or  gave  themselves  courage  for  to-morrow's  battle 
by  relating  the  exploits  of  the  present  day.  But  loudest  of  all 
spoke  Zagloba,  boasting  of  what  he  had  done,  and  what  he  could 
have  done  if  his  horse  had  not  failed. 

"I  can  tell  you,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  officers  of  the  prince 
and  the  nobles  of  Tishkyevich's  command,  "  that  great  battles 
are  no  novelty  for  me.     I  was  in  many  of  them  in  Moldavia  and 


I24IO  HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

Turkey;  but  when  I  was  on  the  field  I  was  afraid  —  not  of  the 
enemy,  for  who  is  afraid  of  such  trash!  —  but  of  my  own  impuls- 
iveness, for  I  thought  immediately  that  it  would  carry  me  too  far.  ^* 

«And  did  it  ?  » 

^*  It  did.  Ask  Skshetuski.  The  moment  I  saw  Vershul  fall- 
ing with  his  horse,  I  wanted  to  gallop  to  his  aid  without  asking 
a  question.      My  comrades  could  scarcely  hold  me  back. '^ 

"True,"  said  Skshetuski,  "  we  had  to  hold  you  in.'* 

"But,"  interrupted  Karvich,  "where  is  Vershul?" 

"He  has  already  gone  on  a  scouting  expedition:  he  knows  no 
rest. " 

"See  then,  gentlemen,"  said  Zagloba,  displeased  at  the  inter- 
ruption, "how  I  captured  the  banner." 

"  Then  Vershul  is  not  wounded  ? "  inquired  Karvich  again. 

"  This  is  not  the  first  one  that  I  have  captured  in  my  life,  but 
none  cost  me  such  trouble." 

"He  is  not  woimded,  only  bruised,"  answered  Azulevich,  a 
Tartar,  "and  has  gulped  water,  for  he  fell  head  first  into  the 
pond. " 

"Then  I  wonder  the  fish  didn't  die,"  said  Zagloba  with  anger, 
"for  the  water  must  have  boiled  from  such  a  flaming  head." 

"  But  he  is  a  great  warrior." 

"Not  so  great,  since  a  half  John*  was  enough  for  him.  Tfu! 
it  is  impossible  to  talk  with  you.  You  might  learn  from  me  how 
to  capture  banners  from  the  enemy." 


PODBIPIENTA'S   DEATH 

From  <With  Fire  and  Sword.  >    Copyright  1890,  by  Jeremiah  Curtin.    Reprinted 
by  permission  of  Little,   Brown  &  Co.,  publishers 

[Within  the  fortifications  of  Zbaraj  the  Poles  are  closely  besieged.  Their 
only  hope  lies  in  getting  news  of  their  plight  to  the  King.  The  four  comrades 
Pan  Longin  Podbipienta,  Pan  Yan  Skshetuski,  Pan  Michael  Volodyovski,  and 
Pan    Zagloba,  are  together  on  the  ramparts,  keeping  watch.] 

PAN    LoNGiN    fell    into   deep   thought;    his   brows    were    covered 
with  furrows,  and  he  sat  a  whole  hour  in  silence.     Suddenly 
he  raised  his  head,  and  spoke  with  his  usual  sweetness:   "I 
will  undertake  to  steal  through  the  Cossacks." 

*A  pun  on  «  Pulyan,»  which  in  Polish  means  «half  Yan»  or  John. 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ  134H 

The  knights,  hearing  these  words,  sprang  from  their  seats  in 
amazement.  Zagloba  opened  his  mouth,  Volodyovski's  mustaches 
quivered,  Skshetuski  grew  pale;  and  the  starosta,  striking  him- 
self on  the  breast,  cried,  "  Would  you  undertake  to  do  this  ?  *^ 

"  Have  you  considered  what  you  say  ? "    asked  Pan  Yan. 

^*  I  considered  it  long  ago,*^  answered  the  Lithuanian;  "for 
this  is  not  the  first  day  that  the  knights  say  that  notice  must  be 
given  the  King  of  our  position.  And  I,  hearing  this,  thought  to 
myself:  ^  If  the  Most  High  God  permits  me  to  fulfill  mj^  vow, 
I  will  go  at  once.  I  am  an  obscure  man :  what  do  I  signify  ? 
What  harm  to  me,   even  if  I  am  killed  on  the  road  ?  ^  " 

"  But  they  will  cut  you  to  pieces,  without  doubt !  ^*  cried 
Zagloba.  "  Have  you  heard  what  the  starosta  says, —  that  it  is 
evident  death  ?  ** 

'*  What  of  that,  brother  ?  If  God  wishes  he  will  carry  me 
through;   if  not,  he  will  reward  me  in  heaven.^* 

"  But  first  they  will  seize  you,  torture  you,  give  you  a  fearful 
death.     Have  yoti  lost  your  reason,  man  ?  **  asked  Zagloba. 

"  I  will  go,  anyhow,"  answered  the  Lithuanian  mildly. 

"A  bird  could  not  fly  through,  for  they  would  shoot  it  from 
their  bows.  They  have  surrounded  us  like  a  badger  in  his 
hole.» 

"  Still  I  will  go !  *^  repeated  the  Lithuanian.  **  I  owe  thanks 
to  the  Lord  for  permitting  me  to  fulfill  my  vow.** 

"  Well,  look  at  him,  examine  him !  **  said  Zagloba  in  despera- 
tion. "You  had  better  have  your  head  cut  off  at  once  and  shoot 
it  from  a  cannon  over  the  tabor;  for  in  this  way  alone  could  you 
push  through  them.'* 

"But  permit  me,  my  friends  —  **  said  Pan  Longin,  clasping  his 
hands. 

"Oh,  no:  you  will  not  go  alone,  for  I  will  go  with  you,**  said 
Skshetuski. 

"And  I  with  you  both !  **  added  Volodyovski,  striking  his 
sword. 

"And  may  the  bullets  strike  you !  **  cried  Zagloba,  seizing 
himself  by  the  head.  "  May  the  bullets  strike  you  with  your 
*And  I,*  'And  I,*  with  your  daring!  They  have  not  had  enough 
blood  yet,  not  enough  of  destruction,  not  enough  of  bullets! 
What  is  doing  here  is  not  sufiicient  for  them ;  they  want  more 
certainty  of  having  their  necks  twisted.  Go  to  the  dogs,  and 
give   me   peace !     I  hope   you  will   be   cut   to   pieces.  **     When   he 


T34I2  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ 

had  said  this  he  began  to  circle  about  in  the  tent  as  if  mad. 
"  God  is  punishing  me,  ^^  cried  he,  ^*  for  associating  with  whirl- 
winds instead  of  honorable,  solid  men.  It  serves  me  right.  ^^  He 
walked  through  the  tent  awhile  longer  with  feverish  tread:  at 
last  he  stopped  before  Skshetuski;  then  putting  his  hands  behind 
his  back  and  looking  into  his  eyes,  began  to  puff  terribly :  "  What 
have  I  done  that  you  persecute  me  ?  *^ 

**  God  save  us !  *^  exclaimed  the  knight.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?  ** 

^^  I  do  not  wonder  that  Podbipienta  invents  such  things :  he 
always  had  his  wit  in  his  fist.  But  since  he  has  killed  the  three 
greatest  fools  among  the  Turks  he  has  become  the  fourth  him- 
self—» 

*^  It  is  disgusting  to  hear  him,'^  interrupted  the  Lithuanian. 

^^And  I  don't  wonder  at  him,'''*  continued  Zagloba,  pointing 
at  Volodyovski.  ^'  He  will  jump  on  a  Cossack's  boot-leg,  or  hold 
to  his  trousers  as  a  burr  does  to  a  dog's  tail,  and  get  through 
quicker  than  any  of  us.  The  Holy  Spirit  has  not  shone  upon 
either  of  the  two;  but  that  you,  instead  of  restraining  their 
madness,  should  add  excitement  to  it,  that  you  are  going  your- 
self, and  wish  to  expose  us  four  to  certain  death  and  torture, — 
that  is  the  final  blow !  Tfu !  I  did  not  expect  this  of  an  officer 
whom  the  prince  himself  has  esteemed  a  valiant  knight." 

^^  How  four  ? "  asked  Skshetuski  in  astonishment.  ^^  Do  you 
want  to  go  ?  " 

"  Yes ! "  cried  Zagloba,  beating  his  breast  with  his  fists,  ^^  I 
will  go.  If  any  of  you  go,  or  all  go  together;  I  will  go  too. 
My  blood  be  on  your  heads!  I  shall  know  next  time. with  whom 
to  associate." 

"  Well  may  you !  "    said  Skshetuski. 

The  three  knights  began  to  embrace  him;  but  he  was  angry 
in  earnest,  and  puffed  and  pushed  them  away  with  his  elbows 
saying,  ^*  Go  to  the  Devil!  I  don't  want  your  Judas  kisses."  Then 
was  heard  on  the  walls  the  firing  of  cannon  and  muskets. 
"There    it    is    for    you, —  go!" 

"  That  is  ordinary  firing, "  remarked  Pan  Yan. 

"Ordinary    firing!"    repeated    Zagloba,  mocking  him.      "  WeU, 
just    think, —  this    is    not    enough    for    them!      Half    the    army   is 
destroyed  by  this    ordinary  firing,  and    they  turn   up  their   noses 
at  it!" 

"  Be  of  good  cheer,"  said  Podbipienta. 


HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ  134 1 3 

^*You  ought  to  keep  your  mouth  shut,  Botvinia.  You  are  most 
to  blame:  you  have  invented  an  undertaking,  which  if  it  is  not  a 
fool's  errand,  then  I'm  a  fool." 

<<  But  still  I'll  go,  brother,"  said  Pan  Longin. 

"You'll  go,  you'll  go;  and  I  know  why.  Don't  exhibit  your- 
self as  a  hero,  for  they  know  you.  You  have  virtue  for  sale,  and 
are  in  a  hurry  to  take  it  out  of  camp.  You  are  the  worst  among 
knights,  not  the  best, —  simply  a  drab,  trading  in  virtue.  Tfu!  an 
offense  to  God, —  that's  what  you  are.  It  is  not  to  the  King  you 
want  to  go,  but  you  would  like  to  snort  through  the  villages  like 
a  horse  through  a  meadow.  Look  at  him!  There  is  a  knight  with 
virtue  for  sale!     Vexation,  vexation,  as  God  is  dear  to  me!" 

"  Disgusting  to  hear  him !  "  cried  the  Lithuanian,  thrusting  his 
fingers  in  his  ears. 

**  Let  disputes  rest,"  said  Skshetuski  seriously.  "Better  let  us 
think  about  this  question." 

"In  God's  name,"  said  the  starosta,  who  had  listened  hitherto 
with  astonishment  to  Zagloba:  "this  is  a  great  question,  but  we 
can  decide  nothing  without  the  prince.  This  is  no  place  for  dis- 
cussion. You  are  in  service  and  obliged  to  obey  orders.  The 
prince  must  be  in  his  quarters:  let  us  go  to  him  and  see  what 
he   will   say  to  your  offer." 

"I  agree  to  that,"  answered  Zagloba;  and  hope  shone  in  his 
face.      "  Let  us  go  as  quickly  as  possible. " 

They  went  out  and  crossed  the  square,  on  which  already  the 
balls  were  falling  from  the  Cossack  trenches.  The  troops  were  at 
the  ramparts,  which  at  a  distance  looked  like  booths  at  a  fair,  so 
overhung  were  they  with  many-colored  clothing  and  sheepskin 
coats,  packed  with  wagons,  fragments  of  tents,  and  every  kind 
of  object  which  might  become  a  shelter  against  the  shots  which 
at  times  ceased  neither  day  nor  night.  And  now  above  those 
rags  hung  a  long  bluish  line  of  smoke,  and  behind  them  ranks  of 
prostrate  red  and  yellow  soldiers,  working  hard  against  the  near- 
est trenches  of  the  enemy.  The  square  itself  was  like  a  ruin: 
the  level  space  was  cut  up  with  spades,  or  trampled  by  horses;  ii 
was  not  made  green  by  a  single  grass-blade.  Here  and  there 
were  mounds  of  earth  freshly  raised  by  the  digging  of  walls  and 
graves;  here  and  there  lay  fragments  of  broken  wagons,  cannon, 
barrels,  or  piles  of  bones,  gnawed  and  whitening  before  the  sun. 
Bodies  of  horses  were  nowhere  visible,  for  each  one  was  removed 
immediately  as  food  for  the  soldiers;  but  everywhere  were  piles 


X34I4  HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

of  iron, —  mostly  cannon-balls,  red  from  rust,  which  fell  every  day 
on  that  piece  of  land.  Grievous  war  and  hunger  were  evident 
at  every  step.  On  their  way  our  knights  met  greater  or  smaller 
groups  of  soldiers, —  some  carrying  wounded  or  dead,  others  hur- 
rying to  the  ramparts  to  relieve  their  overworked  comrades. 
The  faces  of  all  were  black,  sunken,  overgrown  with  beard;  their 
fierce  eyes  were  inflamed,  their  clothing  faded  and  torn;  many 
had  filthy  rags  on  their  heads  in  place  of  caps  or  helmets;  their 
weapons  were  broken.  Involuntarily  came  the  question,  What  will 
happen  a  week  or  two  later  to  that  handful  hitherto  victorious  ? 

"Look,  gentlemen,'*  said  the  starosta:  "it  is  time  to  give 
notice  to  the  King.'' 

"Want  is  showing  its  teeth  like  a  dog,"  said  the  little  knight. 

"  What  will  happen  when  we  have  eaten  the  horses  ? "  asked 
Skshetuski. 

Thus  conversing,  they  reached  the  tents  of  the  prince,  situated 
at  the  right  side  of  the  rampart,  before  which  were  a  few  mounted 
messengers  to  carry  orders  through  the  camp.  Their  horses,  fed 
with  dried  and  ground  horse-flesh  and  excited  by  continual  fire, 
reared  restively,  unable  to  stand  in  one  place.  This  was  the  case 
too  with  all  the  cavalry  horses,  which  in  going  against  the  enemy 
seemed  like  a  herd  of  griffins  or  centaurs  going  rather  by  air 
than  by  land. 

"  Is  the  prince  in  the  tent  ? "  asked  the  starosta  of  one  of  the 
horsemen. 

"Yes,  with  Pan  Pshiyemski,"  answered  the  orderly. 

The  starosta  entered  first  without  announcing  himself,  but  the 
four  knights  remained  outside.  After  a  while  the  ca,nvas  opened, 
and  Pshiyemski  thrust  out  his  head.  "  The  prince  is  anxious  to 
see  you,"  said  he. 

Zagloba  entered  the  tent  in  good  humor,  for  he  hoped  the 
prince  would  not  expose  his  best  knights  to  certain  death;  but 
he  was  mistaken,  for  they  had  not  yet  bowed  when  he  said:  — 

"  The  starosta  has  told  me  of  your  readiness  to  issue  from 
the  camp,  and  I  accept  your  good-will.  Too  much  cannot  be 
sacrificed   for  the  country." 

"We  have  only  come  for  permission  to  try,"  said  Skshetuski, 
"since  your  Highness  is  the  steward  of  our  blood." 

"  Then  you  want  to  go  together  ? " 

"  Your  Highness, "  said  Zagloba,  "  they  want  to  go,  but  I  do 
not.     God    is  my  witness   that   I   have   not   come   here   to   praise 


HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ  1 34 1 5 

myself  or  to  make  mention  of  my  services;  and  if  I  do  mention 
them,  I  do  so  lest  some  one  might  siippose  that  I  am  afraid. 
Pan  Skshetuski,  Volodyovski,  and  Podbipienta  of  Myshekishki, 
are  great  knights;  but  Burlai,  who  fell  by  my  hand  (not  to  speak 
of  other  exploits),  was  also  a  famous  .warrior,  equal  to  Burdabut, 
Bogun,  and  the  three  heads  of  the  janissaries.  I  mean  to  say  by 
this  that  in  knightly  deeds  I  am  not  behind  others.  But  heroism 
is  one  thing,  and  madness  another.  We  have  no  wings,  and  we 
cannot  go  by  land;    that  is  certain.^* 

"  You  will  not  go,  then  ?  ^^  said  the  prince. 

"  I  have  said  that  I  do  not  wish  to  go,  but  I  have  not  said 
that  I  will  not  go.  Since  God  has  punished  me  with  their 
company,  I  must  remain  in  it  till  death.  If  we  should  be  hard 
pressed,  the  sabre  of  Zagloba  will  be  of  service  yet;  but  I  know 
not  why  death  should  be  put  upon  us  four,  and  I  hope  that  your 
Highness  will  avert  it  from  us  by  not  permitting  this  mad  under- 
taking. '* 

<<  You  are  a  good  comrade,'^  answered  the  prince,  "and  it  is 
honorable  on  your  part  not  to  wish  to  leave  your  friends;  but  you 
are   mistaken   in   your   confidence  in  me,  for  I  accept  your  offer." 

"  The  dog  is  dead !  **  muttered  Zagloba,  and  his  hands  dropped. 

At  that  moment  Firlei,  castellan  of  Belsk,  entered  the  tent. 
"  Your  Highness,  my  people  have  seized  a  Cossack,  who  says  that 
they  are  preparing  an  assault  for  to-night." 

"I  have  received  information  too,"  answered  the  prince.  "All 
is  ready,  only  let  our  people  hurry  with  the  ramparts." 

"  They  are  nearly  finished. " 

"That  is  well!  We  will  occupy  them  in  the  evening."  Then 
he  turned  to  the  four  knights.  "  It  is  best  to  try  after  the  storm, 
if  the  night  is  dark." 

"How  is  that?"  asked  Firlei:  "are  you  preparing  a  sally?" 

"The  sally  in  its  own  order, —  I  will  lead  it  myself;  but  now 
we  are  talking  about  something  else.  These  gentlemen  under- 
take to  creep  through  the  enemy  and  inform  the  King  of  our 
condition. " 

The  castellan  was  astonished,  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  at 
the  knights  in  succession.  The  prince  smiled  with  delight  He 
had  this  vanity, —  he  loved  to  have  his  soldiers  admired. 

"In  God's  name!"  said  the  castellan:  "there  are  such  hearts 
then  in  the  world  ?  As  God  lives,  I  will  not  dissuade  you  from 
the  daring  deed." 


I34I6 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 


Zagloba  v^'as  purple  from  rage;  but  he  said  nothing,  he  only 
puffed  like  a  bear. 

The  prince  thought  awhile,  then  said:  — 

"  I  do  not  wish,  however,  to  spend  your  blood  in  vain,  and  I 
am  not  willing  that  all  four  should  go  together.  One  will  go 
first;  if  the  enemy  kill  him,  they  will  not  delay  in  boasting  of 
it,  as  they  have  once  already  boasted  of  the  death  of  my  servant 
whom  they  seized  at  Lvoff.  If  they  kill  the  first,  the  second  will 
go;  afterward  in  case  of  necessity  the  third  and  the  fourth.  But 
perhaps  the  first  will  pass  through;  in  such  an  event  I  do  not 
wish  to  expose   the  others  to  a  useless  death. '^ 

"Your  Highness  —  'interrupted  Skshetuski. 

"  This  is  my  will  and  command,  *'  said  Yeremi  with  emphasis. 
"  To  bring  you  to  agreement,  I  say  that  he  shall  go  first  who 
offered  himself  first." 

"  It  was  I !  '*  cried  Pan  Longin  with  a  beaming  face. 

"To-night,  after  the  storm,  if  it  is  dark,''  added  the  prince. 
"  I  will  give  no  letters  to  the  King:  you  will  -tell  what  )^ou  have 
seen, —  merely  take  a  signet-ring  as  credential." 

Podbipienta  took  the  signet-ring  and  bowed  to  the  priiice,  who 
caught  him  by  the  temples  and  held  him  awhile  with  his  two 
hands;  then  he  kissed  him  several  times  on  the  forehead,  and 
said  in  a  voice  of  emotion:  — 

"  You  are  as  near  to  my  heart  as  a  brother.  May  the  God 
of  Hosts  and  our  Queen  of  Angels  carry  you  through,  warrior  of 
the  Lord !     Amen !  " 

"Amen ! "  repeated  Sobieski,  the  castellan  of  Belsk,  and  Pan 
Pshiyemski. 

The  prince  had  tears  in  his  eyes,  for  he  was  a  real  father  to 
the  knights.  Others  wept,  and  a  quiver  of  enthusiasm  shook  the 
body  of  Pan  Podbipienta.  A  flame  passed  through  his  bones; 
and  rejoiced  to  its  depth  was  his  soul,  pure,  obedient,  and  heroic, 
with  the  hope  of  coming  sacrifice. 

"  History  will  write  of  you !  "  cried  the  castellan. 

"  Non  nobis,  non  nobis,  sed  nomini  tuo,  Domine,  da  gloriam  " 
(Not  to  us,  not  to  us,  but  to  thy  name,  O  Lord,  give  the  glory), 
said  the  prince. 

The  knights  issued  from  the  tent. 

"Tfu!  something  has  seized  me  by  the  throat  and  holds  me," 
said  Zagloba ;  "  and  it  is  as  bitter  in  my  mouth  as  wormwood, 
and  there  they  are  firing  continually.     Oh,  if  the  thunders  would 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ  I3417 

fire  you  away!  '^  said  he,  pointing  to  the  smokingf  trenches  of  the 
Cossacks.  "Oh,  it  is  hard  to  live  in  this  world!  Pan  Longin, 
are  you  really  going  out  ?  May  the  angels  guard  you !  If  the 
plague  would  choke  those  ruffians !  ** 

"I  must  take  farewell  of  you,^^  said  Podbipienta. 

"  How  is  that  ?     Where  are  you  going  ? "  asked  Zagloba, 

<<To  the  priest  Mukhovetski, —  to  confess,  my  brother.  I  must 
cleanse  my  sinful  soul.^* 

Pan  Longin  hastened  to  the  castle;  the  others  returned  to  the 
ramparts.  Skshetuski  and  Volodyovski  were  silent,  but  Zagloba 
said :  — 

"  Something  holds  me  by  the  throat.  I  did  not  think  to  be 
sorrowful,  but  that  is  the  worthiest  man  in  the  world.  If  any 
one  contradicts  me,  I'll  give  it  to  him  in  the  face.  O  my  God, 
my  God!  I  thought  the  castellan  of  Belsk  would  restrain  the 
prince,  but  he  beat  the  drums  still  more.  The  hangman  brought 
that  heretic!  *  History,^  he  says,  *  will  write  of  you.*  Let  it 
write  of  him,  but  not  on  the  skin  of  Pan  Longin.  And  why 
doesn't  he  go  out  himself  ?  He  has  six  toes  on  his  feet,  like 
every  Calvinist,  and  he  can  walk  better.  I  tell  you,  gentlemen, 
that  it  is  getting  worse  and  worse  on  earth,  and  Jabkovski  is  a 
true  prophet  when  he  says  that  the  end  of  the  world  is  near. 
Let  us  sit  down  awhile  at  the  ramparts,  and  then  go  to  the 
castle,  so  as  to  console  ourselves  with  the  company  of  our  friend 
till  evening  at  least.*' 

But  Pan  Longin,  after  confession  and  communion,  spent  the 
whole  time  in  prayer.  He  made  his  first  appearance  at  the  storm 
in  the  evening, —  which  was  one  of  the  most  awful,  for  the  Cos- 
sacks had  struck  just  when  the  troops  were  transporting  their 
cannon  and  wagons  to  the  newly  raised  ramparts.  For  a  time 
it  seemed  that  the  slender  forces  of  the  Poles  would  fall  before 
the  onrush  of  two  hundred  thousand  foes.  The  Polish  battalions 
had  become  so  intermingled  with  the  enemy  that  they  could  not 
distinguish  their  own,  and  three  times  they  closed  in  this  fashion. 
Hmelnitski  exerted  all  his  power;  for  the  Khan  and  his  own 
colonels  had  told  him  that  this  must  be  the  last  storm,  and  that 
henceforth  they  would  only  harass  the  besieged  with  hunger. 
But  after  three  hours,  all  attacks  were  repulsed  with  such  terri- 
ble losses  that  according  to  later  reports,  forty  thousand  of  the 
enemy  had  fallen.  One  thing  is  certain, — after  the  battle  a  whole 
bundle  of  flags  was  thrown  at  the  feet  of  the  prince;  and  this  was 


13418  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ 

really  the  last  great  assault,  after  which  followed  more  difficult 
times  of  digging  under  the  ramparts,  capturing  wagons,  continual 
firing,  suffering,  and  famine. 

Immediately  after  the  storm  the  soldiers,  ready  to  drop  from 
weariness,  were  led  by  the  tireless  Yeremi  in  a  sally,  which  ended 
in  a  new  defeat  for  the  enemy.  Quiet  then  soothed  the  tabor 
and  the  camp. 

The  night  was  warm  but  cloudy.  Four  black  forms  pushed 
themselves  quietly  and  carefully  to  the  eastern  edge  of  the  ram- 
parts. They  were  Pan  Longin,  Zagloba,  Skshetuski,  and  V0I0-. 
dyovski. 

"Guard  your  pistols  well,  to  keep  the  powder  dry,*^  whis- 
pered Pan  Yan.  "  Two  battalions  will  be  ready  all  night.  If  you 
fire,  we  will  spring  to  the  rescue." 

"Nothing  to  be  seen,  even  if  you  strain  your,  eyes  out!** 
whispered    Zagloba. 

"That  is  better,**  answered  Pan  Longin. 

"  Be  quiet !  '*  interrupted  Volodyovski :   "  I  hear  something.  ** 

"That  is  only  the  groan  of  a  dying  man, —  nothing!** 

"If  you  can  only  reach  the  oak  grove. ** 

"  O  my  God !  my  God !  **  sighed  Zagloba,  trembling  as  if  in 
a  fever. 

"  In  three  hours  it  will  be  daylight.  ** 

"  It  is  time !  **  said  Pan   Longin. 

"  Time !  time !  **  repeated  Skshetuski  in  a  stifled  voice.  "  Go 
with  God!** 

"With  God,  with  God!'*  '     • 

"  Farewell,  brothers,  and  forgive  me  if  I  have  offended  any  of 
you  in  anything.  ** 

"  You  offend  ?  O  God !  **  cried  Zagloba,  throwing  himself  into 
his  arms. 

Skshetuski  and  Volodyovski  embraced  him  in  turn.  The 
moment  came.  Suppressed  gulping  shook  the  breasts  of  these 
knights.  One  alone,  Pan  Longin,  was  calm,  though  full  of  emo- 
tion. "  Farewell !  **  he  repeated  once  more ;  and  approaching  the 
edge  of  the  rampart,  he  dropped  into  the  ditch,  and  soon  appeared 
as  a  black  figure  on  the  opposite  bank.  Once  more  he  beckoned 
farewell  to  his  comrades,  and  vanished  in  the  gloom. 

Between  the  road  to  Zalostsitse  and  the  highway  from  Vish- 
nyovets  grew  an  oak  grove,  interspersed  with  narrow  openings. 
Beyond    and    joining   with    it    was   an   old    pine    forest,  thick   and 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ  13419 

large,  extending  north  of  Zalostsitse.  Podbipienta  had  determined 
to  reach  that  grove.  The  road  was  very  perilous,  for  to  reach 
the  oaks  it  was  necessary  to  pass  along  the  entire  flank  of  the 
Cossack  tabor;  but  Pan  Longin  selected  it  on  purpose,  for  it  was 
just  around  the  camp  that  most  people  were  moving  during  the 
whole  night,  and  the  guards  gave  least  attention  to  passers-by. 
Besides,  all  other  roads,  valleys,  thickets,  and  narrow  places  were 
beset  by  guards  who  rode  around  continually;  by  essauls,  sot- 
niks,  and  even  Hmelnitski  himself.  A  passage  through  the  mead- 
ows and  along  the  Gnyezna  was  not  to  be  dreamt  of,  for  .the 
Cossack  horse-herders  were  watching  there  from  dusk  till  day- 
light with  their  herds. 

The  night  was  gloomy,  cloudy,  and  so  dark  that  at  ten  paces 
not  only  could  a  man  not  be  seen,  but  not  even  a  tree.  This 
circumstance  was  favorable  for  Pan  Longin;  though  on  the  other 
hand  he  was  obliged  to  go  very  slowly  and  carefully,  so  as  not 
to  fall  into  any  of  the  pits  or  ditches  occupying  the  whole 
expanse  of  the  battle-field,  and  dug  by  Polish  and  Cossack  hands. 
In  this  fashion  he  made  his  way  to  the  second  Polish  rampart, 
which  had  been  abandoned  just  before  evening,  and  had  passed 
through  the  ditch.  He  stopped  and  listened;  the  trenches  were 
empty.  The  sally  made  by  Yeremi  after  the  storm  had  pushed 
the  Cossacks  out;  who  either  fell,  or  took  refuge  in  the  tabor. 
A  multitude  of  bodies  were  lying  on  the  slopes  and  summits 
of  these  mounds.  Pan  Longin  stumbled  against  bodies  every 
m.oment,  stepped  over  them,  and  passed  on.  From  time  to  time 
a  low  groan  or  sigh  announced  that  some  one  of  the  prostrate 
was  living  yet. 

Beyond  the  ramparts  there  was  a  broad  expanse  stretching  to 
another  trench  made  before  the  arrival  of  Yeremi,  also  covered 
with  corpses;  but  some  tens  of  steps  farther  on  were  those  earth 
shelters,  like  stacks  of  hay  in  the  darkness.  But  they  were 
empty.  Everywhere  the  deepest  silence  reigned, —  nowhere  a  fire 
or  a  man;   no  one  on  that  former  square  but  the  prostrate.  ' 

Pan  Longin  began  the  prayer  for  the  souls  of  the  dead,  and 
went  on.  The  sounds  of  the  Polish  camp,  which  followed  him 
to  the  second  rampart,  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  melting  in  the 
distance,  till  at  last  they  ceased  altogether.  Pan  Longin  stopped 
and  looked  around  for  the  last  time.  He  could  see  almost 
nothing,  for  in  the  camp  there  was  no  light;  but  one  window  in 
the    castle    glimmered   weakly   as   a    star   which    the    clouds   now 


X3420  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ 

expose  and  now  conceal,  or  like  a  glow-worm  which  shines  and 
darkens  in  turn. 

"  My  brothers,  shall  I  see  you  again  in  this  life  ?  '^  thought 
Pan  Longin;  and  sadness  pressed  him  down  like  a  tremendous 
stone.  He  was  barely  able  to  breathe.  There,  where  that  pale 
light  was  trembling,  are  his  people;  there  are  brother  hearts, — 
Prince  Yeremi,  Pan  Yan,  Volodyovski,  Zagloba,  the  priest  Mukho- 
vetski;  there  they  love  him  and  would  gladly  defend  him.  But 
here  is  night,  with  desolation,  darkness,  corpses;  under  his  feet 
choruses  of  ghosts;  farther  on,  the  blood-devouring  tabor  of 
sworn,  pitiless  enemies.  The  weight  of  sadness  became  so  great 
that  it  was  too  heavy  even  for  the  shoulders  of  this  giant.  His 
soul  began  to  waver  within  him. 

In  the  darkness  pale  Alarm  flew  upon  him,  and  began  to 
whisper  in  his  ear,  <*  You  will  not  pass,  it  is  impossible!  Return; 
there  is  still  time!  Fire  the  pistol,  and  a  whole  battalion  will 
rush  to  your  aid.  Through  those  tabors,  through  that  savage- 
ness,  nothing  will  pass. '^ 

That  starving  camp,  covered  every  day  with  balls,  full  of 
death  and  the  odor  of  corpses,  appeared  at  that  moment  to  Pan 
Longin  a  calm,  peaceful,  safe  haven.  His  friends  there  would 
not  think  ill  of  him  if  he  returned.  He  would  tell  them  that  the 
deed  passed  human  power;  and  they  would  not  go  themselves, 
would  not  send  another, —  would  wait  further  for  the  mercy  of 
God  and  the  coming  of  the  King.  But  if  Skshetuski  should  go 
and  perish!  "In  the  name  of  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost! 
These  are  temptations  of  Satan,  **  thought  Pan  Longin.  "  I  am 
ready  for  death,  and  nothing  worse  can  meet  me.  And  this  is 
Satan  terrifying  a  weak  soul  with  desolation,  corpses,  and  dark- 
ness; for  he  makes  use  of  all  means.  ^^  Will  the  knight  return, 
cover  himself  with  shame,  suffer  in  reputation,  disgrace  his  name, 
not  save  the  army,  renounce  the  crown  of  heaven?  Never!  And 
he  moved  on,  stretching  out  his  hands  before  him. 

Now  a  murmur  reached  him  again ;  not  from  the  Polish 
camp,  however,  but  from  the  opposite  side,  still  indefinite,  but 
as  it  were  deep  and  terrible,  like  the  growling  of  a  bear  giving 
sudden  answer  in  a  dark  forest.  Disquiet  had  now  left  Pan 
Longin's  soul;  sadness  had  ceased,  and  changed  into  a  mere 
sweet  remembrance  of  those  near  to  him.  At  last,  as  if  answer- 
ing that  menace  coming  up  from  the  tabor,  he  repeated  once 
more  in  spirit,   "  But  still   I   will  go.  ** 


HliNRYK   SIENKIEWICZ  I342T 

After  a  certain  time  he  found  himself  on  that  battle-field 
where  on  the  first  day  of  the  storm  the  prince's  cavalry  had 
defeated  the  Cossacks  and  janissaries.  The  road  here  was  more 
even, — fewer  pits,  ditches,  shelters,  and  no  corpses;  for  those  who 
had  fallen  in  the  earlier  struggles  had  been  buried  by  the  Cos- 
sacks. It  was  also  somewhat  clearer,  for  the  ground  was  not  cov- 
ered with  various  obstacles.  The  land  inclined  gradually  toward 
the  north.  But  Pan  Longin  turned  immediately  to  the  flank,  wish- 
ing to  push  through  between  the  western  pond  and  the  tabor. 

He  went  quickly  now,  without  hindrance,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  already  that  he  was  reaching  the  line  of  the  tabor,  when 
some  new  sound  caught  his  attention.  He  halted  at  once,  and 
after  waiting  a  quarter  of  an  hour  heard  the  tramp  and  breath- 
ing of  horses.  "Cossack  patrols!"  thought  he.  The  voices  of 
men  reached  his  ears.  He  sprang  aside  with  all  speed,  and 
searching  with  his  foot  for  the  first  depression  in  the  ground, 
fell  to  the  earth  and  stretched  out  motionless,  holding  his  pistol 
in  one  hand  and  his  sword  in  the  other. 

The  riders  approached  still  nearer,  and  at  last  were  abreast  of 
him.  It  was  so  dark  he  could  not  count  them;  but  he  heard 
every  word  of  their  conversation. 

"It  is  hard  for  them,  but  hard  for  us  too,**  said  some  sleepy 
voice.      "And  how  many  good  men  of  ours  have  bitten  the  dust!" 

"O  Lord!"  said  another  voice,  "they  say  the  King  is  not  far. 
What  will  become  of  us  ?  " 

"The  Khan  got  angry  with  our  father;  and  the  Tartars 
threaten   to  take   us,  if   there   will   be   no  other  prisoners." 

"And  in  the  pastures  they  fight  with  our  men.  Father  has 
forbidden  us  to  go  to  the  Tartar  camp,  for  whoever  goes  there 
is  lost." 

"  They  say  there  are  disguised  Poles  among  the  market-men. 
I  wish  this  war  had  never  begun." 

"It  is  worse  this  time  than  before." 

"  The  King  is  not  far  away,  with  the  Polish  forces.  That  is 
the  worst !  " 

"Ha,  ha!  You  would  be  sleeping  in  the  Saitch  at  this  hour; 
now  you  have  got  to  push  around  in  the  dark  like  a  vampire." 

"There  must  be  vampires  here,  for  the  honses  are  snorting." 

The  voices  receded  gradually,  and  at  last  were  silent.  Pan 
Longin  rose  and  went  on. 


13422  HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

A  rain  fine  as  mist  began  to  fall.  It  grew  still  darker.  On 
the  left  side  of  Pan  Longin  gleamed  at  the  distance  of  two  fur- 
longs a  small  light;  after  that  a  second,  a  third,  and  a  tenth. 
Then  he  knew  he  was  on  the  line  of  the  tabor.  The  lights  were 
far  apart  and  weak.  It  was  evident  that  all  were  sleeping,  and 
only  here  and  there  might  they  be  drinking  or  preparing  food 
for  the  morrow. 

"Thank  God  that  I  am  out  after  the  storm  and  the  sally,'' 
said  Pan  Longin  to  himself.      "They  must  be  mortally  weary.'* 

He  had  scarcely  thought  this  when  he  heard  again  in  the  dis- 
tance the  tramp  of  horses, —  another  patrol  was  coming  But  the 
ground  in  this  place  was  more  broken;  therefore  it  was  easier 
to  hide.  The  patrol  passed  so  near  that  the  guards  almost  rode 
over  Pan  Longin.  Fortunately  the  horses,  accustomed  to  pass 
among  prostrate  bodies,  were  not  frightened.  Pan  Longin  went 
on. 

In  the  space  of  a  thousand  yards  he  met  two  more  patrols. 
It  was  evident  that  the  whole  circle  occupied  by  the  tabor  was 
guarded  like  the  apple  of  the  eye.  But  Pan  Longin  rejoiced  in 
spirit  that  he  was  not  meeting  infantry  outposts,  who  are  gener- 
ally placed  before  camps  to  give  warning  to  mounted  patrols. 

But  his  joy  was  of  short  duration.  Scarcely  had  he  advanced 
another  furlong  of  the  road  when  some  dark  figure  shifted  before 
him  not  more  than  twenty  yards  distant.  Though  unterrified, 
he  felt  a  slight  tremor  along  his  spine.  It  was  too  late  to  with- 
draw and  go  around.  The  form  moved;  evidently  it  had  seen 
him.  A  moment  of  hesitation  followed,  short  as  the  twinkle  of 
an  eye.     Then  a  suppressed  voice  called:  — 

"  Vassil,  is  that  you  ? " 

"I,"  said  Pan  Longin,  quietly. 

"  Have  you  gorailka  ?  " 

«I  have." 

*  Give  me  some. " 

Pan  Longin  approached. 

"  Why  are  you  so  tall  ? ''  asked  the  voice,  in  tones  of  terror. 

Something  rustled  in  the  darkness.  A  scream  of  "Lor — !" 
smothered  the  instant  it  was  begun,  came  from  the  mouth  of  the 
picket;  then  was  heard  the  crash  as  it  were  of  broken  bones, 
heavy  breathing,  and  one  figure  fell  quietly  to  the  earth.  Pan 
Longin  moved  on. 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ  1342^ 

But  he  did  not  pass  along  the  same  line,  for  it  was  evidently 
a  line  of  pickets;  he  turned  therefore  a  little  nearer  to  the  tabor, 
wishing  to  go  between  the  pickets  and  the  line  of  wagons.  If 
there  was  not  another  line  of  pickets,  Pan  Longin  could  meet  in 
that  space  only  those  who  went  out  from  camp  to  relieve  those 
on  duty.      Mounted  patrols  had  no  duty  here. 

After  a  time  it  became  evident  that  there  was  no  second  line 
of  pickets.  But  the  tabor  was  not  farther  than  two  bow-shots; 
and  wonderful!  it  seemed  \o  grow  nearer  continually,  though  he 
tried  to  go  at  an  equal  distance  from  the  line  of  wagons. 

It  was  evident  too  that  not  all  were  asleep  in  the  tabor.  At 
the  fires  smoldering  here  and  there,  sitting  figures  were  visible. 
In  one  place  the  fire  was  greater, —  so  large  indeed  that  it 
almost  reached  Pan  Longin  with  its  light,  and  he  was  forced  to 
draw  back  toward  the  pickets  so  as  not  to  pass  through  the  line 
of  illumination.  From  the  distance  he  distinguished,  hanging  on 
cross-sticks  near  the  fire,  oxen  which  the  butchers  were  skinning. 
Disputing  groups  of  men  looked  on.  A  few  were  playing  quietly 
on  pipes  for  the  butchers.  It  was  that  part  of  the  camp  occu- 
pied by  the  herdsmen.  The  more  distant  rows  of  wagons  were 
surrounded  by  darkness. 

But  the  line  of  the  tabor  lighted  by  the  smoldering  fires  again 
appeared  as  if  nearer  to  Pan  Longin.  In  the  beginning  he  had 
it  only  on  his  right  hand;  suddenly  he  saw  that  he  had  it  in 
front  of  him.  Then  he  halted  and  meditated  what  to  do.  He 
was  surrounded.  The  tabor,  the  Tartar  camp,  and  the  camps 
of  the  mob,  encircled  all  Zbaraj  like  a  ring.  Inside  this  ring, 
sentries  were  standing  and  mounted  guards  moving,  that  no  one 
might  pass  through. 

The  position  of  Pan  Longin  was  terrible.  He  had  now  the 
choice  either  to  go  through  between  the  wagons  or  seek  another 
exit  between  the  Cossacks  and  the  Tartars.  Otherwise  he  would 
have  to  wander  till  daylight  along  that  rim,  unless  he  wished  to 
return  to  Zbaraj;  but  even  in  the  latter  case  he  might  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  mounted  patrol.  He  understood,  however,  that 
the  very  nature  of  the  ground  did  not  permit  that  one  wagon 
should  stand  close  to  another.  There  had  to  be  intervals  in  the 
rows,  and  considerable  ones.  Such  intervals  were  necessary  for 
communication,  for  an  open  road,  for  necessary  travel.  He  deter- 
mined to  look  for  such  a  passage,  and  with  that  object  ap- 
proached still  nearer  to  the  wagons.     The  gleam  of  fires  burning 


1^424  HENRYK  SIENKIEWICZ 

here  and  there  might  betray  him;  but  on  the  other  hand  they 
were  useful,  for  without  them  he  could  see  neither  the  wagons 
nor  the  road  between  them. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  found  a  road,  and  recognized 
it  easily,  for  it  looked  like  a  black  belt  between  the  wagons. 
There  was  no  fire  on  it;  there  could  be  no  Cossacks  there,  since 
the  cavalry  had  to  pass  that  way.  Pan  Longin  put  himself  on 
his  knees  and  hands,  and  began  to  crawl  to  that  dark  throat  like 
a  snake  to  a  hole. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed, — half  an  hour;  he  crawled  con- 
tinually, praying  at  the  same  time,  commending  his  body  and 
soul  to  the  protection  of  the  heavenly  powers.  He  thought  that 
perhaps  the  fate  of  all  Zbaraj  was  depending  on  him  then,  could 
he  pass  that  throat;  he  prayed  therefore  not  for  himself  alone, 
but  for  those  who  at  that  moment  in  the  trenches  were  praying 
for  him. 

On  both  sides  of  him  all  was  silent, —  no  man  moved,  no 
horse  snorted,  no  dog  barked;  and  Pan  Longin  went  through. 
The  bushes  and  thickets  looked  dark  before  him;  behind  them 
was  the  oak  grove;  behind  the  oak  grove  the  pine  woods,  all  the 
way  to  Toporoff;  beyond  the  pine  woods,  the  King,  salvation,  and 
glory,  service  before  God  and  man.  What  was  the  cutting  of 
three  heads  in  comparison  with  this  deed,  for  which  something 
was  needed  beyond  an  iron  hand  ?  Pan  Longin  felt  the  differ- 
ence, but  pride  stirred  not  that  clean  heart;  it  was  only  moved 
like  that  of  a  child  with  tears  of  thankfulness. 

Then  he  rose  and  passed  on.  Beyond  the  wagons  there  were 
either  no  pickets,  or  few  easily  avoided.  Now  heavier  rain  began 
to  fall,  pattering  on  the  bushes  and  drowning  the  noise  of  his 
steps.  Pan  Longin  then  gave  freedom  to  his  long  legs,  and 
walked  like  a  giant,  trampling  the  bushes;  every  step  was  like  five 
of  a  common  man, —  the  wagons  every  moment  farther,  the  oak 
grove  every  moment  nearer  and   salvation  every  moment  nearer. 

Here  are  the  oaks.  Night  beneath  them  is  as  black  as  under 
the  ground;  but  that  is  better.  A  gentle  breeze  sprang  up;  the 
oaks  murmured  lightly, —  you  would  have  said  they  were  mutter- 
ing a  prayer:  **  O  great  God,  good  God,  guard  this  knight,  for  he 
is  thy  servant,  and  a  faithful  son  of  the  land  on  which  we  have 
grown  up  for  thy  glory !  *^ 

About  seven  miles  and  a  half  divided  Pan  Longin  from  the 
Polish  camp.     Sweat   poured    from  his  forehead,  for  the   air  was 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ  13425 

sultry,  as  if  gathering-  for  a  storm;  but  he  went  on,  caring  noth- 
ing for  the  storm,  for  the  angels  were  singing  in  his  heart.  The 
oaks  became  thinner.  The  first  field  is  surely  near.  The  oaks 
rustle  more  loudly,  as  if  wishing  to  say,  "Wait:  you  were  safe 
among  us.'^  But  the  knight  has  no  time,  and  he  enters  the  open 
field.  Only  one  oak  stands  on  it,  and  that  in  the  centre;  but  it 
is  larger  than  the  others.     Pan  Longin  moves  toward  that  oak. 

All  at  once,  when  he  was  a'  few  yards  from  the  spreading 
branches  of  the  giant,  about  a  dozen  figures  push  out  and  ap- 
proach him  with  wolf-springs :  "  Who  are  you  ?  who  are  you  ?  '* 
Their  language  is  unknown;  their  heads  are  covered  with  some- 
thing pointed.  They  are  the  Tartar  horse-herders,  who  have 
taken  refuge  from  the  rain.  At  that  moment  red  lightning 
flashed  through  the  field,  revealing  the  oak,  the  wild  figures  of 
the  Tartars,  and  the  enormous  noble.  A  terrible  cry  shook  the 
air,  and  the  battle  began  in  a  moment. 

The  Tartars  rushed  on  Pan  Longin  like  wolves  on  a  deer,  and 
seized  him  with  sinewy  hands;  but  he  only  shook  himself,  and  all 
the  assailants  fell  from  him  as  ripe  fruit  from  a  tree.  Then  the 
terrible  double-handed  sword  gritted  in  the  scabbard;  and  then 
were  heard  groans,  howls,  calls  for  aid,  the  whistle  of  the  sword, 
the  groans  of  the  wounded,  the  neighing  and  the  frightened 
horses,  the  clatter  of  broken  Tartar  swords.  The  silent  field 
roared  with  all  the  wild  sounds  that  can  possibly  find  place  in 
the  throats  of  men. 

The  Tartars  rushed  on  him  repeatedly  in  a  crowd;  but  he  put 
his  back  to  the  oak,  and  in  front  covered  himself  with  the  whirl- 
wind of  his  sword,  and  slashed  awfully.  Bodies  lay  dark  under 
his  feet;  the  others  fell  back,  impelled  by  panic  terror.  "A  div! 
a  div !  *^  howled  they  wildly. 

The  howling  was  not  without  an  answer.  Half  an  hour  had 
not  passed  when  the  whole  field  swarmed  with  footmen  and 
horsemen.  Cossacks  ran  up,  and  Tartars  also  with  poles  and 
bows  and  pieces  of  burning  pitch-pine.  Excited  questions  began 
to  fly  from  mouth  to  mouth.  "  What  is  it  ?  what  has  happened  ?  '* 
"A  div!'^  answered  the  Tartars.  "A  div!"  repeated  the  crowd. 
«A  Pole!     A  div!     Take  him  alive,  alive!" 

Pan  Longin  fired  twice  from  his  pistols,  but  those  reports 
could  not  be  heard  by  his  comrades  in  the  Polish  camp.  Now 
the  crowd  approached  him  in  a  half-circle.  He  was  standing  in 
the   shade,  gigantic,  supported    by  the    tree,   and    he    waited    with 


13426  HENRYK    SIENKIEWICZ 

sword    in    hand.     The    crowd    came    nearer,   nearer.     At    last    the 
voice  of  command   shouted,  ^*  Seize   him !  " 

They  rushed  ahead.  The  cries  were  stopped  Those  who 
could  not  push  on  gave  light  to  the  assailants.  A  whirl  of  men 
gathered  and  turned  under  the  tree.  Only  groans  came  out  of 
that  whirl,  and  for  a  long  time  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish 
anything.  At  last  a  scream  of  terror  was  wrested  from  the 
assailants.  The  crowd  broke  in  a  moment.  Under  the  tree 
remained  Pan  Longin,  and  at  his  feet  a  crowd  of  bodies  still 
quivering  in  agony. 

"  Ropes !    ropes !  **  thundered  a  voice. 

The  horsemen  ran  for  the  ropes,  and  brought  them  in  the 
twinkle  of  an  eye.  Then  a  number  of  strong  men  seized  the 
two  ends  of  a  long  rope,  endeavoring  to  fasten  Pan  Longin  to 
the  tree;  but  he  cut  with  his  sword,  and  the  men  fell  on  the 
ground  on  both  sides.  Then  the  Tartars  tried,  with  the  same 
result. 

Seeing  that  too  many  men  in  the  crowd  interfere  with  one 
another,  a  number  of  the  boldest  Nogais  advanced  once  more, 
wishing  absolutely  to  seize  the  enormous  man  alive;  but  he 
tore  them  as  a  v/ild  boar  tears  resolute  dogs.  The  oak,  which 
had  grown  together  from  two  great  trees,  guarded  in  its  central 
depression  the  knight;  whoever  approached  him  from  the  front 
within  the  length  of  his  sword  perished  without  uttering  a  groan. 
The  superhuman  power  of  Pan  Longin  seemed  to  increase  with 
each  nToment.  Seeing  this,  the  enraged'  hordes  drove  away  the 
Cossacks,  and  around  were  heard  the  wild  cries,   ^'  Bows !    bows !  ** 

At  the  sight  of  the  bows,  and  of  the  arrows  poured  out  at 
the  feet  of  his  enemies  from  their  quivers,  Pan  Longin  saw  that 
the  moment  of  death  was  at  hand,  and  he  began  the  litany  to 
the  Most  Holy  Lady. 

It  became  still.  The  crowds  restrained  their  breath,  waiting 
for  what  would  happen.  The  first  arrow  whistled,  as  Pan  Longin 
was  saying,  ^^  Mother  of  the  Redeemer!**  and  it  scratched  his  tem- 
ple. Another  arrow  whistled  as  he  was  saying,  ^^  O  glorious 
Lady,**  and  it  stuck  in  his  shoulder.  The  words  of  the  litany 
mingled  with  the  whistling  of  arrows;  and  when  Pan  Longin  had 
said  ^*  Morning  Star,**  arrows  were  standing  in  his  shoulders, 
in  his  side,  in  his  legs.  The  blood  from  his  temples  was  flow- 
ing into  his  eyes;  he  saw  as  through  a  mist  the  field  and  the 
Tartars:  he  heard  no  longer  the  whistle  of  the  arrows.       He  felt 


I 


HENRYK    SIENKIEWICZ  I3427 

that  he  was  weakening,  that  his  legs  were  bending  under  him; 
his  head  dropped  on  his  breast.  At  last  he  fell  on  his  knees. 
Then  he  said  with  a  half -groan,  <' Queen  of  the  Angels — ** 
These  words  were  his  last  on  earth.  The  angels  of  heaven  took 
his  soul,  and  placed  it  as  a  clear  pearl  at  the  feet  of  the  "  Queen 
of  the  Angels.^* 


BASIA   WORKS   A   MIRACLE 

From  <Pan  Michael.'     Copyright  1893,  by  Jeremiah  Curtin.     Reprinted  by 
•    permission  of  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  publishers 

[Pan  Michael  is  in  love  with  Krysia,  but  she  loves  Ketling;  to  him  there- 
fore Michael  resigns  her,  while  Basia  sobs.] 

KETLING  was  so  changed  that  he  was  barely  able  to  make  a 
low  obeisance  to  the  ladies;  then  he  stood  motionless,  with 
his  hat  at  his  breast,  with  his  eyes  closed,  like  a  wonder- 
working image.  Pan  Michael  embraced  his  sister  on  the  way, 
and  approached  Krysia.  The  rnaiden's  face  was  as  white  as 
linen,  so  that  the  light  down  on  her  lip  seemed  darker  than 
usual;  her  breast  rose  and  fell  violently.  But  Pan  Michael  took 
her  hand  mildly  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips;  then  his  mustaches 
quivered  for  a  time,  as  if  he  were  collecting  his  thoughts;  at  last 
he  spoke  with  great  sadness,  but  with  great  calmness :  — 

"My  gracious  lady  —  or  better,  my  beloved  Krysia  I  Hear  me 
without  alarm;  for  I  am  not  some  Scythian  or  Tartar,  or  a  wild 
beast,  but  a  friend,  who  though  not  very  happy  himself,  still  de- 
sires your  happiness.  It  has  come  out  that  you  and  Ketling  love 
each  other:  Panna  Basia  in  just  anger  threw  it  in  my  eyes.  I 
do  not  deny  that  I  rushed  out  of  this  house  in  a  rage,  and  flew 
to  seek  vengeance  on  Ketling.  Whoso  loses  his  all  is  more  easily 
borne  away  by  vengeance;  and  I,  as  God  is  dear  to  me,  loved 
you  terribly,  and  not  merel}'  as  a  man  never  married  loves  a 
maiden.  For  if  I  had  been  married,  and  the  Lord  God  had  given 
me  an  only  son  or  daughter,  and  had  taken  them  afterward,  I 
should  not  ha\-e  mourned- over  them,  I  think,  as  I  mourned  over 
you.  *^ 

Here  Pan  Michael's  voice  failed  for  a  moment,  but  he  recov- 
ered quickly;  and  after  his  mustache  had  quivered  a  number  of 
times,  he  continued:  — 


J         g  HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

*  Sorrow  is  sorrow;  but  there  is  no  help.  That  Ketling  fell 
in  love  with  you  is  not  a  wonder.  Who  would  not  fall  in  love 
with  you  ?  And  that  you  fell  in  love  with  him  —  that  is  my  fate : 
there  is  no  reason  either  to  wonder  at  that,  for  what  comparison 
is  there  between  Ketling  and  me  ?  In  the  field  he  will  say  him- 
self that  I  am  not  the  worse  man;  but  that  is  another  matter. 
The  Lord  God  gave  beauty  to  one,  withheld  it  from  the  other, 
but  rewarded  him  with  reflection.  So  when  the  wind  on  the 
road  blew  around  me,  and  my  first  rage  had  passed,  conscience 
said  straightway,  Why  punish  them  ?  Why  shed  the  blood  of 
a  friend?  They  fell  in  love, —  that  was  God's  will.  The  oldest 
people  say  that  against  the  heart,  the  command  of  a  hetman 
is  nothing.  It  was  the  will  of  God  that  they  fell  in  love;  but 
that  they  did  not  betray,  is  their  honesty.  If  Ketling  had  even 
known  of  your  promise  to  me,  maybe  I  should  have  called 
to  him,  *  Quench!^  but  he  did  not  know  of  it.  What  was  his 
fault  ?  Nothing.  And  your  fault  ?  Nothing.  He  wished  to 
depart;  you  wished  to  go  to  God.  My  fate  is  to  blame,  my 
fate  only;  for  the  finger  of  God  is  to  be  seen  now  in  this,  that 
I  remain  in  loneliness.  But  I  have  conquered  myself;  I  have 
conquered !  '^ 

Pan  Michael  stopped  again  and  began  to  breathe  quickly,  like 
a  man  who,  after  long  diving  in  water,  has  come  out  to  the  air; 
then  he  took  Krysia's  hand.  **  So  to  love,'^  said  he,  ^*  as  to  wish 
all  for  one's  self,  is  not  an  exploit.  *The  hearts  are  breaking  in 
all  three  of  us,^  thought  I:  ^better  let  one  suffer  and  give  relief 
to  the  other  two.*  Krysia,  God  give  you  happiness  with  Ketling! 
Amen.  God  give  you,  Krysia,  happiness  with  Ketling!  It  pains 
me  a  little,  but  that  is  nothing —  God  give  you  —  that  is  noth- 
ing —  I  have  conquered  myself !  ** 

The  soldier  said,  **  That  is  nothing;'*  but  his  teeth  gritted,  and 
his  breath  began  to  hiss  through  them.  From  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  the  sobbing  of  Basia  was  heard. 

"  Ketling,  come  here,  brother !  **  cried  Volodyovski. 

Ketling  approached,  knelt  down,  opened  his  arms,  and  in  si- 
lence, with  the  greatest  respect  and  love,  embraced  Krysia's  knees. 

But  Pan  Michael  continued  in  a  broken  voice,  ^*  Press  his  head. 
He  has  had  his  suffering  too,  poor  fellow.  God  bless  you  and 
him!  You  will  not  go  to  the  cloister.  I  prefer  that  you  should 
bless  me  rather  than  have  reason  to  curse  me.  The  Lord  God 
is  above  me,  though  it  is  hard  for  me  now.** 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ  1342Q 

Basia,  not  able  to  endure  longer,  rushed  out  of  the  room; 
seeing  which,  Pan  Michael  turned  to  Makovetski  and  his  sister. 
^*Go  to  the  other  chamber, ^^  said  he,  "and  leave  them;  I  too  will 
go  somewhere,  for  I  will  kneel  down  and  commend  myself  to  the 
Lord  Jesus. '^     And  he  went  out. 

Half-way  down  the  corridor  he  met  Basia,  at  the  staircase; 
on  the  very  same  place  where,  borne  away  by  anger,  she  had 
divulged  the  secret  of  Krysia  and  Ketling.  But  this  time  Basia 
stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  choking  with  sobs. 

At  sight  of  this,  Pan  Michael  was  touched  at  his  own  fate;  he 
had  restrained  himself  up  to  that  moment  as  best  he  was  able, 
but  then  the  bonds  of  sorrow  gave  way,  and  tears  burst  from 
his  eyes  in  a  torrent.     "  Why  do  you  weep  ?  ^^  cried  he  pitifully. 

Basia  raised  her  head,  thrusting,  like  a  child,  now  one  and 
now  the  other  fist  into  her  eyes,  choking  and  gulping  at  the  air 
with  open  mouth,  and  answered  with  sobbing,  "  I  am  so  sorry ! 
Oh,  for  God's  sake!  O  Jesus!  Pan  Michael  is  so  honest,  so 
worthy!     Oh,  for  God's  sake!* 

Pan  Michael  seized  her  hands  and  began  kissing  them  from 
gratitude.  "  God  reward  you  !  God  reward  you  for  your  heart !  " 
said  he.      "Quiet;    do  not  weep."' 

But  Basia  sobbed  the  more,  almost  to  choking.  Every  vein 
in  her  was  quivering  from  sorrow;  she  began  to  gulp  for  air 
more  and  more  quickly;  at  last,  stamping  from  excitement,  she 
cried  so  loudly  that  it  was  heard  through  the  whole  corridor, 
^^ Krysia  is  a  fool!  I  would  rather  have  one  Pan  Michael  than 
ten  Ketlings!  I  love  Pan  Michael  with  all  my  strength  —  better 
than  auntie,  better  than  uncle,  better  than  Krysia!" 

"For  God's  sake!  Basia!"  cried  the  knight.  And  wishing  to 
restrain  her  emotion,  he  seized  her  in  his  embrace,  and  she 
nestled  up  to  his  breast  with  all  her  strength,  so  that  he  felt  her 
heart  throbbing  like  a  wearied  bird;  then  he  embraced  her  still 
more  firmly,  and  they  remained  so. 

Silence  followed. 

"  Basia,  do  you  wish  me  ? "    asked  the  little  knight, 

"  I  do,   I  do,   I  do !  "    answered  Basia. 

At  this  answer  transport  seized  him  in  turn ;  he  pressed  his 
lips  to  her  rosy  lips,  and  again  they  remained  so. 

Meanwhile  a  carriage  rattled  up  to  the  house ;  and  Zagloba 
rushed   into    the    ante-room,   then   to    the    dining-room,   in    which 


l^A7o  HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 

Pan  Makovetski  was  sitting  with  his  wife.  ^'  There  is  no  sign  of 
Michael!"  cried  he,  in  one  breath:  ^^  I  looked  everywhere.  Pan 
Krytski  said  that  he  saw  him  with  Ketling.  Surely  they  have 
fought ! » 

^*  Michael  is  here,''  answered  Pani  Makovetski;  "he  brought 
Ketling  and  gave  him   Krysia. " 

The  pillar  of  salt  into  which  Lot's  wife  was  turned  had  surely 
a  less  astonished  face  than  Zagloba  at  that  moment.  Silence 
continued  for  a  while ;  then  the  old  noble  rubbed  his  eyes  and 
asked,   «  What  ? '' 

"  Krysia  and  Ketling  are  sitting  in  there  together,  and  Michael 
has  gone  to  pray,"  said  Makovetski. 

Zagloba  entered  the  next  room  without  a  moment's  hesitation; 
and  though  he  knew  of  all,  he  was  astonished  a  second  time, 
seeing  Ketling  and  Krysia  sitting  forehead  to  forehead.  They 
sprang  up,  greatly  confused,  and  had  not  a  word  to  say,  espe- 
cially as  the  Makovetskis  came  in  after  Zagloba. 

"A  lifetime  would  not  suffice  to  thank  Michael,''  said  Ketling 
at  last.      "Our  happiness  is  his  work." 

"God  give  you  happiness!"  said  Makovetski.  "We  will  not 
oppose  Michael." 

Krysia  dropped  into  the  embraces  of  Pani  Makovetski,  and  the 
two  began  to  cry.  Zagloba  was  as  if  stunned.  Ketling  bowed 
to  Makovetski's  knees  as  to  those  of  a  father;  and  either  from 
the  onrush  of  thoughts,  or  from  confusion,  Makovetski  said,  "But 
Pan  Deyma  killed  Pan  Ubysh.  Thank  Michael,  not  me!"  After 
a  while  he  asked,  "  Wife,  what  was  the  name  of  that  lady  ? " 

But  she  had  no  time  for  an  answer,  for  at  that  moment  Basia 
rushfed  in,  panting  more  than  usual,  more  rosy  than  usual,  with 
her  forelock  falling  down  over  her  eyes  more  than  usual;  she 
ran  up  to  Ketling  and  Krysia,  and  thrusting  her  finger  now  into 
the  eye  of  one,  and  now  into  the  eye  of  the  other,  said,  "  Oh, 
sieh,  love,  marrv!  You  think  that  Pan  Michael  will  be  alone 
in  the  world  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it :  I  shall  be  with  him,  for  I  love 
him,  and  I  have  told  him  so.  I  was  the  first  to  tell  him,  and 
he  asked  if  I  wanted  him,  and  I  told  him  that  I  would  rather 
have  him  than  ten  others;  for  I  love  him,  and  I'll  be  the  best 
wife,  and  I  will  never  leave  him!  I'll  go  to  the  war  with  him! 
I've  loved  him  this  long  time,  though  I  did  not  tell  him;  for  he 
is   the   best   and   the  worthiest,  the   beloved —     And   now   marry 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ  13431 

for  yourselves,  and  I  will  take  Pan  Michael,  to-morrow  if  need 
be  — for— » 

Here  breath  failed  Basia. 

All  looked  at  her,  not  understanding  whether  she  had  gone 
mad  or  was  telling  the  truth ;  then  they  looked  at  one  another, 
and  with  that  Pan  Michael  appeared  in  the  door  behind  Basia. 

**  Michael,'^  asked  Makovetski,  when  presence  of  mind  had 
restored  his  voice   to  him,  "  is   what   we  hear  true  ?  " 

**God  has  wrought  a  miracle,"  answered  the  little  knight  with 
great  seriousness,  '*  and  here  is  my  comfort,  my  love,  my  great- 
est treasure." 

After  these  words  Basia  sprang  to  him  again  like  a  deer. 

Now  the  mask  of  astonishment  fell  from  Zagloba's  face,  and 
his  white  beard  began  to  quiver;  he  opened  his  arms  widely 
and  said,  **  God  knows  I  shall  sob!  Haiduk  and  Michael,  come 
hither !  " 


BASIA  AND   MICHAEL   PART 

From    <Pan    Michael. >      Copyright    1S93,  by    Jeremiah    Curtin.     Reprinted    by 
permission  of  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  publishers 

[The  siege  of  Kamenyets  is  in  pr(;gress.  The  defenders  have  just  repulsed 
a  fierce  attack  upon  the  castle,  but  they  know  their  desperate  plight,  and  fore- 
see the  tragic  end.     Ba.sia  is  with  the  knights  upon  the  ramparts.] 

«  T-NRAisE  be  to  God,"  said  the  little  knight,  ^*  there  will  be  rest 
I  till  the  morning  kindya  at  least;  and  in  justice  it  belongs 
to  us." 

But  that  was  an  apparent  rest  only;  for  when  night  was  still 
deeper,  they  heard  in  the  silence  the  sound  of  hammers  beating 
the  cliff. 

**That  is  worse  than  artillery,"  said  Ketling,  listening. 

^^  Now  would  be  the  time  to  make  a  sortie,"  said  the  little 
knight;  "but  'tis  impossible, — the  men  are  too  weary.  They 
have  not  slept;  and  they  have  not  eaten,  though  they  had  food, 
for  there  was  no  time  to  take  it.  Besides  there  are  alwavs  some 
thousands  on  guard  with  the  miners,  so  that  there  may  be  no 
opposition  from  our  side.  There  is  no  help  but  to  blow  up  the 
new  castle  ourselves,  and  withdraw  to  the  old  one." 


13432 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 


^*  That  is  not  for  to-day,'^  answered  Ketling-.  ^^  See,  the  men 
have  fallen  like  sheaves  of  grain,  and  are  sleeping  a  stone  sleep. 
The  dragoons  have  not  even  wiped  their  swords.*^ 

"  Basia,  it  is  time  to  go  home  and  sleep,  *^  said  the  little 
knight. 

^*  I  will,  Michael,'*  answered  Basia  obediently;  **  I  will  go  as 
you  command.  But  the  cloister  is  closed  now:  I  should  prefer  to 
remain,  and  watch  over  your  sleep.'* 

^*  It  is  a  wonder  to  me,'*  said  the  little  knight,  "that  after 
such  toil  sleep  has  left  me,  and  I  have  no  wish  whatever  to  rest 
my  head," 

/*  Because  you  have  roused  your  blood  among  the  janissaries," 
said  Zagloba.  "  It  was  always  so  with  me :  after  a  battle  I  could 
never  sleep  in  any  way.  But  as  to  Basia,  why  should  she  drag 
herself  to  a  closed  gate  ?     Let  her  remain  here  till  morning. " 

Basia  pressed  Zagloba  with  delight;  and  the  little  knight,  see- 
ing how  much  she  wished  to  stay,  said:  — 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  chambers. " 

They  went  in;  but  the  place  was  full  of  lime  dust,  which  the 
cannon-balls  had  raised  by  shaking  the  walls.  It  was  impossible 
to  stay  there;  so  they  went  out  again,  and  took  their  places  in  a 
niche  made  when  the  old  gate  had  been  walled  in.  Pan  Michael 
sat  there,  leaning  against  the  masonry.  Basia  nestled  up  to  him, 
like  a  child  to  its  mother.  The  night  was  in  August,  warm  and 
fragrant.  The  moon  illuminated  the  niche  with  a  silver  light; 
the  faces  of  the  little  knight  and  Basia  were  bathed  in  its  rays. 
Lower  down,  in  the  court  of  the  castle,  were  groups  of  sleeping 
soldiers  and  the  bodies  of  those  slain  during  the  cannonade;  for 
there  had  been  no  time  yet  for  their  burial.  The  calm  light  of 
the  moon  crept  over  those  bodies,  as  if  that  hermit  of  the  sky 
wished  to  know  who  was  sleeping  from  weariness  merely,  and 
who  had  fallen  into  the  eternal  slumber.  Farther  on  was  out- 
lined the  wall  of  the  main  castle,  from  which  fell  a  black  shadow 
on  one  half  of  the  court-yard.  Outside  the  walls,  from  between 
the  bulwarks,  where  the  janissaries  lay  cut  down  with  sabres, 
came  the  voices  of  men.  They  were  camp-followers  and  those 
of  the  dragoons  to  whom  booty  was  dearer  than  slumber;  they 
were  stripping  the  bodies  of  the  slain.  Their  lanterns  were 
gleaming  on  the  place  of  combat  like  fireflies.  Some  of  them 
called  to  one  another;   and  one  was  singing  in  an  undertone   a 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 


13433 


sweet   song   not  beseeming  the  work  to  which   he   was   given   at 
the  moment:  — 

<<  Nothing  is  silver,  nothing  is  gold  to  me  now, 
Nothing  is  fortune. 
Let  me  die  at  the  fence,  then,  of  hunger, 
If  only  near  thee.** 

But  after  a  certain  time  that  movement  began  to  decrease, 
and  at  last  stopped  completely.  A  silence  set  in  which  was 
broken  only  by  the  distant  sound  of  the  hammers  breaking  the 
cliffs,  and  the  calls  of  the  sentries  on  the  walls.  That  silence, 
the  moonlight,  and  the  night  full  of  beauty,  delighted  Pan  Michael 
and  Basia.  A  yearning  came  upon  them,  it  is  unknown  why;  and 
a  certain  sadness,  though  pleasant.  Basia  raised  her  eyes  to  her 
husband;   and  seeing  that  his  eyes  were  open,  she  said:  — 

^*  Michael,  you  are  not  sleeping. " 

^'  It  is  a  wonder,  but  I  cannot  sleep. " 

^^  It  is  pleasant  for  you  here  ? " 

«  Pleasant.      But  for  you  ?  '* 

Basia  nodded  her  bright  head.  "O  Michael,  so  pleasant!  ai,  ai! 
Did  you  not  hear  what  that  man  was  singing  ? " 

Here  she  repeated  the  last  words  of  the  little  song, — 

**  Let  me  die  at  the  fence,  then,  of  hunger. 
If  only  near  thee.** 

A  moment  of  silence  followed,  which  the  little  knight  inter- 
rupted :  — 

«But  listen,  Basia.** 

«  What,  Michael  ?  '* 

«To  tell  the  truth,  we  are  wonderfully  happy  with  each  other; 
and  I  think  if  one  of  us  were  to  fall,  the  other'  would  grieve 
beyond  measure.  ** 

Basia  understood  perfectly  that  when  the  little  knight  said 
"if  one  of  us  were  to  fall,**  instead  of  ch'e,  he  had  himself  only 
in  mind.  It  came  to  her  head  that  maybe  he  did  not  expect  to 
come  out  of  that  siege  alive, —  that  he  wished  to  accustom  her 
to  that  termination;  therefore  a  dreadful  presentiment  pressed 
her  heart,   and   clasping  her  hands,  she   said:  — 

"  Michael,  have  pity  on  yourself  and  on  me  I  ** 

The  voice  of  the  little  knight -was  moved  somewhat,  though 
calm. 


j^.,,  HENRYK    SIENKIEWICZ 

"But  see,  Basia,  you  are  not  right, ^*  said  he;  "for  if  you  only 
reason  the  matter  out,  what  is  this  temporal  existence  ?  Why 
break  one's  neck  over  it  ?  Who  would  be  satisfied  with  tasting 
happiness  and  love  here  when  all  breaks  like  a  dry  twig, — 
who  ? '' 

But  Basia  began  to  tremble  from  weeping,   and  to  repeat  :  — 

"  I  will  not  hear  this !     I  will  not !  I  will  not !  '^ 

"As  God  is  dear  to  me,  you  are  not  right,"  repeated  the  lit- 
tle knight.  "Look,  think  of  it:  there  above,  beyond  that  quiet 
moon,  is  a  country  of  bliss  without  end.  Of  such  a  one  speak  to 
me.  Whoever  reaches  that  meadow  will  draw  breath  for  the  first 
time,  as  if  after  a  long  journey,  and  will  feed  in  peace.  When 
my  time  comes, —  and  that  is  a  soldier's  affair, — it  is  your  sim- 
ple duty  to  say  to  yourself,  ^  That  is  nothing!  Michael  is  gone. 
True,  he  is  gone  far,  farther  than  from  here  to  Lithuania;  but 
that  is  nothing,  for  I  shall  follow  him.^  Basia,  be  quiet;  do  not 
weep.  The  one  who  goes  first  will  prepare  quarters  for  the 
other:    that  is  the   whole   matter." 

Here  there  came  on  him,  as  it  were,  a  vision  of  coming  events; 
for  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  moonlight,  and  continued:  — 

"  What  is  this  mortal  life  ?  Grant  that  I  am  there  first,  wait- 
ing till  some  one  knocks  at  the  heavenly  gate.  Saint  Peter  opens 
it.  I  look:  who  is  that?  My  Basia!  Save  us!  Oh,  I  shall 
jump  then!  Oh,  I  shall  cry  then!  Dear  God,  words  fail  me. 
And  there  will  be  no  tears,  only  endless  rejoicing;  and  there  will 
be  no  pagans,  nor  cannon,  nor  mines  under  walls,  only  peace  and 
happiness.     Ai,  Basia,  remember,  this  life  is  nothing!" 

"  Michael,  Michael !  "  repeated  Basia. 

And  again  came  silence,  broken  only  by  the  distant,  monoto- 
nous sound  of  the  hammers. 

"Basia,  let  us  pray  together,"  said  Pan  Michael  at  last. 

And  those  two  souls  began  to  pray.  As  they  prayed,  peace 
came  on  both;  and  then  sleep  overcame  them,  and  they  slum- 
bered till   the   first   dawn. 

Pan  Michael  conducted  Basia  away  before  the  morning  kindya 
to  the  bridge  joining  the  old  castle  with  the  town.  In  parting, 
he  said:  — 

"  This  life  is  nothing !    remember  that,  Basia. " 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ  13435 

THE    FUNERAL   OF   PAN   MICHAEL 

From    <Pan    Michael. >     Copyright    1893,   by    Jeremiah    Curtin.     Reprinted   by 
permission   of   Little,  Brown   &   Co.,  publishers 

[Kamenyets  has  been  basely  surrendered  to  the  Sultan.  Pan  Michael  pre- 
pares to  send  forth  his  troops,  but  between  him  and  Ketling  there  is  a  secret 
understanding:  they  have  sworn  to  blow  up  the  castle  and  meet  death  to- 
gether, that  the  white  flag  may  never  be  hoisted  over  the  citadel  of  Kam- 
enyets.] 

WHEN    Volodyovski    had   mustered    the    troops,  he    called    Pan 
Mushalski  and  said  to  him:  — 

"  Old  friend,  do  me  one  more  service.  Go  this  mo- 
ment to  my  wife,  and  tell  her  from  me  —  ^'  Here  the  voice  stuck 
in  the  throat  of  the  little  knight  for  a  while.  ^*And  say  to  her 
from  me  —  '^  He  halted  again,  and  then  added  quickly,  ^^  This 
life  is  nothing !  ^^ 

The  bowman  departed.  After  him  the  troops  went  out  grad- 
ually. Pan  Michael  mounted  his  horse  and  watched  over  the 
march.  The  castle  was  evacuated  slowly,  because  of  the  rubbish 
and  fragments  which  blocked  the  way. 

Ketling  approached  the  little  knight.  *^  I  will  go  down,*^  said 
he,  fixing  his  teeth. 

^'  Go !    but  delay  till  the  troops  have  marched  out.     Go !  '* 

Here  they  seized  each  other  in  an  embrace  which  lasted 
some  time.  The  eyes  of  both  were  gleaming  with  an  uncommon 
radiance.     Ketling  rushed  away  at  last  toward  the  vaults. 

Pan  Michael  took  the  helmet  from  his  head.  He  looked 
awhile  yet  on  the  ruin,  on  that  field  of  his  glory,  on  the  rubbish, 
the  corpses,  the  fragments  of  walls,  on  the  breastwork,  on  the 
guns;  then  raising  his  eyes,  he  began  to  pra}'.  His  last  words 
were,  "Grant  her,  O  Lord,  to  endure  this  patiently;  give  her 
peace !  ** 

Ah!  Ketling  hastened,  not  waiting  even  till  the  troops  had 
marched  out:  for  at  that  moment  the  bastions  quivered,  an  awful 
roar  rent  the  air;  bastions,  towers,  walls,  horses,  guns,  living 
men,  corpses,  masses  of  earth,  all  torn  iipward  with  a  flame,  and 
mixed,  —  pounded  together,  as  it  were,  into  one  dreadful  car- 
tridge, flew  toward  the  sky. 

Thus  died  Volodyovski,  the  Hector  of  Kamenyets,  the  first 
soldier  of  the  Commonwealth. 


13436 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 


In  the  monastery  of  St.  Stanislav  stood  a  lofty  catafalque  in 
the  centre  of  the  church;  it  was  surrounded  with  gleaming 
tapers,  and  on  it  lay  Pan  Volodyovski  in  two  coffins,  one  of  lead 
and  one  of  wood.  The  lids  had  been  fastened,  and  the  funeral 
service  was  just  ending. 

It  was  the  heartfelt  wish  of  the  widow  that  the  body  should 
rest  in  Hreptyoff:  but  since  all  Podolia  was  in  the  hands  of  the 
enemy,  it  was  decided  to  bury  it  temporarily  in  Stanislav;  for 
to  that  place  the  ^*  exiles  *^  of  Kamenyets  had  been  sent  under  a 
Turkish  convoy,  and  there  delivered  to  the  troops  of  the  hetman. 

All  the  bells  in  the  monastery  were  ringing.  The  church  was 
filled  with  a  throng  of  nobles  and  soldiers,  who  wished  to  look 
for  the  last  time  at  the  coffin  of  the  Hector  of  Kamenyets,  and 
the  first  cavalier  of  the  Commonwealth.  It  was  whispered  that 
the  hetman  himself  was  to  come  to  the  funeral;  but  as  he  had 
not  appeared  so  far,  and  as  at  any  moment  the  Tartars  might 
come  in  a  chambul,  it  was  determined  not  to  defer  the  ceremony. 

Old  soldiers,  friends  or  subordinates  of  the  deceased,  stood  in 
a  circle  around  the  catafalque.  Ainong  others  were  present  Pan 
Mushalski,  the  bowman.  Pan  Motovidlo,  Pan  Snitko,  Pan  Hrom- 
yka.  Pan  Nyenashinyets,  Pan  Novoveski,  and  many  others,  former 
officers  of  the  stanitsa.  By  a  marvelous  fortune,  no  man  was 
lacking  of  those  who  had  sat  on  the  evening  benches  around  the 
hearth  at  Hreptyoff;  all  had  brought  their  heads  safely  out  of 
that  war,  except  the  man  who  was  their  leader  and  model.  That 
good  and  just  knight,  terrible  to  the  enemy,  loving  to  his  own; 
that  swordsman  above  swordsmen,  with  the  heart  of  a  dove, — 
lay  there  high  among  the  tapers,  in  glory  immeasurable,  but  in 
the  silence  of  death.  Hearts  hardened  through  war  were  crushed 
with  sorrow  at  that  sight;  yellow  gleams  from  the  tapers  shone 
on  the  stern,  suffering  faces  of  warriors,  and  were  reflected  in 
glittering  points  in  the  tears  dropping  down  from  their  eyelids. 

Within  the  circle  of  soldiers  lay  Basia,  in  the  form  of  a  cross, 
on  the  floor;  and  near  her  Zagloba,  old,  broken,  decrepit,  and 
trembling.  She  had  followed  on  foot  from  Kamenyets  the 
hearse  bearing  that  most  precious  coffin,  and  now  the  moment 
had  come  when  it  was  necessary  to  give  that  coffin  to  the  earth. 
Walking  the  whole  way,  insensible,  as  if  not  belonging  to  this 
world,  and  now  at  the  catafalque,  she  repeated  with  unconscious 
lips,  "  This  life  is  nothing !  **  She  repeated  it  because  that  beloved 
one  had  commanded  her,  for  that  was  the  last  message  which  he 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ  13437 

had  sent  her;  but  in  that  repetition  and  in  those  expressions 
were  mere  sounds,  without  substance,  without  truth,  without  mean- 
ing and  solace.  No:  "This  life  is  nothing  ^^  meant  merely  regret, 
darkness,  despair,  torpor,  merely  misfortune  incurable,  life  beaten 
and  broken, —  an  erroneous  announcement  that  there  was  noth- 
ing above  her,  neither  mercy  nor  hope;  that  there  was  merely 
a  desert,  and  it  will  be  a  desert  which  God  alone  can  fill  when 
he  sends  death. 

They  rang  the  bells;  at  the  great  altar.  Mass  was  at  its  end. 
At  last  thundered  the  deep  voice  of  the  priest,  as  if  calling  from 
the  abyss:  ^'^Reqiiiescat  in  pace!^^  A  feverish  quiver  shook  Basia, 
and  in  her  unconscious  head  rose  one  thought  alone :  "  Now,  now, 
they  will  take  him  from  me !  **  But  that  was  not  yet  the  end  of 
the  ceremony.  The  knights  had  prepared  many  speeches  to  be 
spoken  at  the  lowering  of  the  coffin;  meanwhile  Father  Kamin- 
ski  ascended  the  pulpit, —  the  same  who  had  been  in  Hreptyoff 
frequently,  and  who  in  the  time  of  Basia's  illness  had  prepared 
her  for  death. 

People  in  the  church  began  to  spit  and  cough,  as  is  usual 
before  preaching;  then  they  were  quiet,  and  all  eyes  were  turned 
to  the  pulpit.     The  rattling  of  a  drum  was  heard  on  the  pulpit. 

The  hearers  were  astonished.  Father  Kaminski  beat  the  drum 
as  if  for  alarm;  he  stopped  suddenly,  and  a  death-like  silence  fol- 
lowed. Then  a  drum  was  heard  a  second  and  a  third  time; 
suddenly  the  priest  threw  the  drumsticks  to  the  floor  of  the 
church,  and   called:  — 

"  Pan  Colonel  Volodyovski !  ** 

A  spasmodic  scream  from  Basia  answered  him.  It  became 
simply  terrible  in  the  church.  Pan  Zagloba  rose,  and  aided  by 
Mushalski  bore  out  the  fainting  woman. 

Meanwhile  the  priest  continued :  "  In  God's  name.  Pan  Volo- 
dyovski, they  are  beating  the  alarm !  there  is  war,  the  enemy 
is  in  the  land!  —  and  do  you  not  spring  up,  seize  your  sabre, 
mount  your  horse  ?  Have  you  forgotten  your  former  virtue  ? 
Do  you   leave   us  alone   with   sorrow,  with  alarm  ? " 

The  breasts  of  the  knights  rose;  and  a  universal  weeping 
broke  out  in  the  church,  and  broke  out  several  times  again,  when 
the  priest  lauded  the  virtue,  the  love  of  country,  and  the  bravery 
of  the  dead  man.  His  own  words  carried  the  preacher  away. 
His  face  became  pale;  his  forehead  was  covered  with  sweat;  his 
voice  trembled.     Sorrow  for  the  little  knight  carried  him  away, 


13438 


HENRYK   SIENKIEWICZ 


sorrow  for  Kamenyets,  sorrow  for  the  Commonwealth,  ruined  by 
the  hands  of  the  followers  of  the  Crescent;  and  finally  he 
finished  his  eulogy  with   this  prayer:  — 

**  O  Lord,  they  will  turn  churches  into  mosques,  and  chant 
the  Koran  in  places  where  till  this  time  the  Gospel  has  been 
chanted.  Thou  hast  cast  us  down,  O  Lord;  thou  hast  turned 
thy  face  from  us,  and  given  us  into  the  power  of  the  foul  Turk. 
Inscrutable  are  thy  decrees;  but  who,  O  Lord,  will  resist  the 
Turk  now  ?  What  armies  will  war  with  him  on  the  bounda- 
ries ?  Thou,  from  whom  nothing  in  the  world  is  concealed, — 
thou  knowest  best  that  there  is  nothing  superior  to  our  cavalry! 
What  cavalry  can  move  for  thee,  O  Lord,  as  ours  can  ?  Wilt 
thou  set  aside  defenders  behind  whose  shoulders  all  Christendom 
might  glorify  thy  name?  O  kind  Father,  do  not  desert  us!  show 
us  thy  mercy!  Send  us  a  defender!  Send  a  crusher  of  the  foul 
Mohammedan!  Let  him  come  hither;  let  him  stand  among  us; 
let  him  raise  our  fallen  hearts !     Send  him,  O  Lord !  ^^ 

At  that  moment  the  people  gave  way  at  the  door;  and  into 
the  church  walked  the  hetman,  Pan  Sobieski.  The  eyes  of  all 
were  turned  to  him ,  a  quiver  shook  the  people ;  and  he  went 
with  clatter  of  spurs  to  the  catafalque,  lordly,  mighty,  with  the 
face  of  a  Caesar.     An  escort  of  iron  cavalry  followed  him. 

"  Salvator !  '^  cried  the  priest,  in  prophetic  ecstasy. 

Sobieski  knelt  at  the  catafalque,  and  prayed  for  the  soul  of 
Volodyovski. 


dl 


13439 


EDWARD   ROWLAND  SILL 

(1841-1887) 

Ihe  strain  sounded  by  Edward  Rowland  Sill  has  a  quality  of 
distinction,  and  a  haunting  loveliness  of  aspiration,  such  as 
to  endear  him  to  those  who  rejoice  in  art  which  is  but  the 
handmaiden  to  dignity  of  thought  and  quiet  beauty  of  form.  Life 
and  song  with  Sill  —  as  with  Sidney  Lanier,  between  whom  and  the 
New-Englander  there  is  spiritual  fellowship  —  were  in  harmony;  and 
man  and  writer  equally  call  forth  admiration.  Sill's  life  was  studious, 
shy,  withdrawn;  his  work  too  made  no  noisy  demand  on  the  public. 
It  was  not  startling  in  manner.  Its  appeal 
was  to  the  inner  experience,  to  the  still 
small  voice,  which  is  the  soul's  monitor. 
His  art  showed  that  unobtrusive  obedience 
to  the  fundamental  technique,  which,  from 
the  Greek  days  to  our  own,  has  acted  as  a 
preservative  of  the  written  word. 

Sill  was  born  in  Windsor.  Connecticut, 
on  April  29th,  1841,  and  was  graduated  from 
Yale  College  at  the  age  of  twenty.  At  first 
he  went  to  California  with  business  plans 
in  mind;  but  came  back  to  the  East,  intend- 
ing to  become  a  minister,  and  studied  for  a 
short  time  at  the  Harvard  Divinity  School. 
This    idea    was    soon    abandoned;    and    he 

went  to  New  York  City  and  did  editorial  work  on  the  New  York 
Evening  Mail.  Then  he  went  to  Ohio  to  do  some  teaching,  and 
thence  was  called  to  California  again  in  1871,  as  principal  of  the 
High  School  at  Oakland;  and  after  three  years'  service  there,  went 
to  the  University  of  California  at  Berkeley,  to  be  the  professor  of 
English  literature, —  a  position  he  held  until  1882,  when  he  returned 
to  Ohio  and  devoted  himself  to  literary  work.  He  died  at  Cleveland, 
in  that  State,  February  27th,   1887. 

But  it  was  the  life  internal,  not  that  external,  which  was  most 
significant  in  the  case  of  Sill.  A  scholar,  an  idealist,  as  a  teacher 
he  was  very  unconventional  but  intensely  inspiring.  He  fulfilled  the 
grand  pedagogic  conception  that  the  most  fruitful  teaching  means 
not  so  much  the  imparting  of  knowledge  as  the  stimulation  of  a 
fine  personality.     In   his  latest  years,  when  out  of  health  and  thrown 


Edward  R.  Sill 


1344°  EDWARD   ROWLAND   SILL 

much  upon  himself,  his  broodings  were  deep  and  wise,  and  his  choicest 
lyrics  are  the  precious  register  of  them ;  another  such  registration 
being  the  remarkable  letters  he  wrote  to  a  few  privileged  friends. 
He  lived  aside  from  the  feverish  centres  of  activity,  but  kept  in  the 
stream  of  the  nobler  activities  of  the  human  mind  and  soul.  As  he 
wrote  in  one  of  the  finest  of  his  poems,  ^  Field-Notes  \*  — 

«Life  is  a  game  the  soul  can  play 
With  fewer  pieces  than  men  say.* 

Again  in  ^Solitude'  he  expresses  his  feeling:  — 

«A11  alone,  alone, 
Calm  as  on  a  kingly  throne. 
Take  thy  place  in  the  crowded  land 
Self-centred  in  free  self-command. 
Far  from  the  chattering  tongues  of  men, 
Sitting  above  their  call  or  ken. 
Free  from  links  of  manner  and  form. 
Thou  shalt  learn  of  the  winged  storm, — 
God  shall  speak  to  thee  out  of  the  sky.» 

All  that  one  knows  of  Sill's  personal  side  is  in  consonance  with  the 
aspiring  note  and  the  intellectual  questing  that  mark  his  poetry. 

Dying  comparatively  young,  at  forty-five,  there  is  a  sense  of  in- 
completion  about  his  literary  output.  He  did  not  write  facilely  nor 
polish  much.  A  book  of  verse  in  young  manhood,  *■  The  Hermitage 
and  Other  Poems  ^  (1867);  a  mid-manhood  volume  privately  printed, 
<  The  Venus  of  Milo  and  Other  Poems*  (1883);  and  a  well-chosen 
posthumous  selection,  *  Poems  >  (1888),  embracing  the  bulk  of  his 
worthiest  work,— make  up  the  scant  list.  He  produced  slowly,  and 
was  chary  about  collecting  the  pieces  which  appeared  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  and  elsewhere;  only  doing  so,  indeed,  on  the  urgence  of  his 
publishers.  But  it  is  qualit3^  not  quantity,  which  defines  a  writer's 
place ;  and  the  charm,  suggestion,  and  strength  of  Sill's  verse  cannot 
be  gainsaid.  The  dominant  trait  in  him  is  spirituality,  coming  out 
whether  he  is  describing  nature  —  few  American  poets  have  been 
more  happy  in  this  —  or  dealing  with  the  deep  heart  of  man.  It  is 
the  soul's  problem  in  relation  to  existence  which  awakens  his  warm 
interest  and  solicitude.  The  jocund  mood,  the  touch  of  humor,  were 
rare  with  him  as  a  writer,  but  not  entirely  wanting,  as  the  very 
strong  satiric  piece  of  verse  *  Five  Lives  *  is  enough  to  prove.  The 
playful  side  of  his  nature, .  too,  is  glimpsed  in  many  of  his  private 
letters.  Intellectually,  and  in  the  matter  of  diction  to  a  degree,  there 
is  an  Emersonian  flavor  to  Sill.  A  lyric  like  ^Service,*  for  example, 
certainly  would  not  have  shamed  the  Concord  Sage.  Sill's  spiritual 
faith  had  the  same  robust  optimism  as  Emerson's,  though  there  was 


EDWARD   ROWLAND   SILL  iiAAf 

more  sensitiveness  to  the  minor  chords  of  life.  This  strong,  affirming 
belief  in  the  triumph  of  spirit  over  flesh  makes  Sill's  verse  an  ethical 
tonic,  as  well  as  an  aesthetic  delight.  *■  Field-Notes  ^  is  his  noblest 
statement  of  this  helpful  philosophy,  which  however  crops  out  con- 
tinually in  his  work.  This  mood  and  attitude  of  mind,  expressed  with 
sincerity  and  tenderness,  with  music  and  imagination,  denote  Sill  as 
one  whose  accomplishment,  if  slight  in  extent  and  unambitious  in 
aim,  is  of  a  very  high  order,  and  such  as  could  emanate  only  from 
a  poet  truly  called  to  song. 


[The    follo\ving   poems   were   copyrighted   by   Houghton,    Mifflin  &   Co.  in 
1887,  and  are  reprinted  with  their  permission.] 

OPPORTUNITY 

THIS  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream:  — 
There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain; 
And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 
A  furious  battle,  and  men  yelled,  and  swords 
Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields.     A  prince's  banner 
Wavered,  then  staggered  backward,  hemmed  by  foes. 
A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge. 
And  thought,  *^  Had  I  a  sword  of  keener  steel  — 
That  blue  blade  that  the  King's  son  bears  —  but  this 
Blunt  thing  — ! "  he  snapt  and  flung  it  from  his  hand, 
And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 
Then  came  the  King's  son,  wounded,  sore  bestead. 
And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword, 
Hilt-buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand. 
And  ran  and  snatched  it;   and  with  battle-shout 
Lifted  afresh  he  hewed  his  enemy  down. 
And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 


T 


HOME 

HERE  lies  a  little  city  in  the  hills; 

White  are  its  roofs,  dim  is  each  dwelling's  door, 
And  peace  with  perfect  rest  its  bosom  fills. 


There  the  pure  mist,  the  pity  of  the  sea. 

Comes  as  a  white,  soft  hand,  and  reaches  o'er 
And  touches  its  still  face  most  tenderly. 


13442  EDWARD    ROWLAND   SILL 

Unstirred  and  calm,  amid  our  shifting  years, 

Lo!   where  it  lies,  far  from  the  clash  and  roar. 
With  quiet  distance  blurred,  as  if  through  tears. 

O  heart,  that  prayest  so  for  God  to  send 

Some  loving  messenger  to  go  before 
And  lead  the  way  to  where  thy  longings  end, 

Be  sure,  be  very  sure,  that  soon  will  come 

His  kindest  angel,  and  through  that  still  door 
Into  the  Infinite  love  will  lead  thee  home. 


T 


THE    FOOL'S   PRAYER 

HE  royal  feast  was  done ;   the  King 

Sought  out  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 

And  to  his  jester  cried:  "Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer!** 


The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 
Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool; 

His  pleading  voice  arose:  —  «0  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool! 

*^No  pity.  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 
From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool: 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin:  but  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool! 

*  'Tis  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 
Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay; 

'Tis  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away, 

« These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 
Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end; 

These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 


EDWARD   ROWLAND   SILL  1  H43 

<*  The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept, — 
Who  "knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung? 

The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say, — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung? 

*  Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, — 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all; 
But  for  our  blunders,  —  oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 

*  Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will:  but  Thou,  O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! " 

The  room  was  hushed:  in  silence  rose 

The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool; 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
<*  Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  '* 


w 


A  MORNING   THOUGHT 

HAT  if  some  morning,  when  the  stars  were  paling, 
And  the  dawn  whitened,  and  the  east  was  clear. 

Strange  peace  and  rest  fell  on  me  from  the  presence 
Of  a  benignant  spirit  standing  near; 


And  I  should  tell  hitn,  as  he  stood  beside  me:  — 

<<  This  is  our  earth  —  most  friendly  earth,  and  fair; 

Daily  its  sea  and  shore  through  sun  and  shadow 
Faithful  it  turns,  robed  in  its  azure  air; 

"There  is  blest  living  here,  loving  and  serving. 
And  quest  of  truth,  and  serene  friendships  dear: 

But  stay  not.  Spirit!  Earth  has  one  destroyer  — 
His  name  is  Death:  flee,  lest  he  find  thee  here!* 

And  what  if  then,  while  the  still  morning  brightened, 
And  freshened  in  the  elm  the  summer's  breath, 

Should  gravely  smile  on  me  the  gentle  angel, 

And  take  my  hand  and  say,  *'  My  name  is  Death "  ? 


13444  EDWARD   ROWLAND   SILL  | 


STRANGE 

HE  DIED  at  night.     Next  day  they  came 
To  weep  and  praise  him;   sudden  fame 
These  suddenly  warm  comrades  gave. 
They  called  him  pure,  they  called  him  brave; 
One  praised  his  heart,  and  one  his  brain; 
All  said,  <*  You'd  seek  his  like  in  vain, — 
Gentle,  and  strong,  and  good:^^  none  saw 
In  all  his  character  a  flaw. 

At  noon  he  wakened  from  his  trance, 
Mended,  was  well!     They  looked  askance; 
Took  his  hand  coldly;   loved  him  not, 
Though  they  had  wept  him;  quite  forgot 
His  virtues;   lent   an  easy  ear 
To  slanderous  tongues;  professed  a  fear 
He  was  not  what  he  seemed  to  be; 
Thanked  God  they  were  not  such  as  he; 
Gave  to  his  hunger  stones  for  bread: 
And  made  him,  living,  wish  him  dead. 


LIFE 

FORENOON,  and  afternoon,  and  night, —  Forenoon, 
And  afternoon,  and  night, —  Forenoon,  and  —  what! 
The  empty  song  repeats  itself.     No  more? 
Yea,  that  is  Life:  make  this  forenoon  sublime, 
This  afternoon  a  psalm,  this  night  a  prayer, 
And  Time  is  conquered,  and  thy  crown  is  won. 


'3445 


WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 

(1806-1870) 

(ne  of  the  stalwart  pioneers  of  American  literature  was  the 
South-Carolinian,  William  G.  Simms.  He  cultivated  letters 
under  comparatively  adverse  conditions.  He  produced,  under 
the  whip  of  necessity  and  by  force  of  a  vigorous  gift  for  literary  com- 
position, a  remarkable  number  of  books,  many  of  them  below  his  nor- 
mal power.  Yet  some  of  his  Revolutionary  and  Colonial  romances 
have  a  merit  likely  to  give  them  a  lasting  audience.  Boys,  who  are 
keen  on  the  scent  of  a  stirring  plot  and  a  well-told  storv,  still  read 
Simms  with  gusto.  Moreover,  in  making  lit- 
erary use  of  the  early  doings  of  his  native 
State  and  of  other  Southern  and  border 
States,  he  did  a  real  service  in  drawing  at- 
tention to  and  awakening  interest  in  local 
United  States  history.  Simms  had  the  wis- 
dom, in  a  day  when  it  was  rarer  than  it  is 
now,  to  draw  upon  this  rich  native  material 
lying  as  virgin  ore  for  the  novelist.  No 
other  man  of  his  time  made  more  success- 
ful use  of  it. 

William  Gilmore  Simms  was  born  at 
Charleston,  South  Carolina,  April  17th,  1806. 
His  father  was  a  self-made  man  of  decided 
force,   though    lacking    education.      William 

had  only  a  common-school  training;  and  before  studying  law,  was  a 
clerk  in  a  chemical  house.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  when  twenty- 
one  years  of  age;  but  cared  little  for  the  profession,  indicating  his 
preference  the  same  year  by  publishing  two  volumes  of  poems. 
Throughout  his  career  Simms  courted  the  Muse;  but  his  verse  never 
became  an  important  part  of  his  achievement.  In  1828  he  became 
editor  and  part  owner  of  the  Charleston  City  Gazette,  which  took 
the  Union  side  during  the  Nullification  excitement.  He  held  the  posi- 
tion for  four  years,  when  the  newspaper  was  discontinued  because  of 
political  dissensions,  leaving  the  editor  in  financial  straits.  After  a 
year's  residence  in  Hingham,  Massachusetts, —  where  his  first  novel, 
*  Martin  Faber,  the  Story  of  a  Criminal,  >  was  written, — he  returned  to 
South  Carolina;  settling  finally  on  his  plantation  Woodlands,  near  Med- 
way,  in  that  State,  where  he  lived  for  many  years  the  life  of  a  genial 


W.  G.  Simms 


13446 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS 


country  gentleman,  a  large  slave-owner,  his  mansion  the  centre  of  an 
open-handed  hospitality.  Simms  was  in  these  years  the  representa- 
tive Southern  author,  visited  as  a  matter  of  course  by  travelers  from 
the  North.  This  life  was  varied  also  by  political  office:  he  was  for 
many  years  a  member  of  the  South  Carolina  Legislature,  and  was 
once  an  unsuccessful  candidate  for  lieutenant-governor. 

Personally  Simms  was  an  impulsive,  choleric,  generous-hearted 
man,  full  of  pluck  and  energy,  widely  interested  in  the  affairs  of  his 
land,  doing  steadily  what  he  conceived  to  be  right.  During  his 
meridian  of  strength  he  prospered,  though  driven  to  work  hard  to 
keep  up  his  style  of  living.  But  when  the  war  came  he  suffered  the 
common  lot  of  well-conditioned  Southerners,  and  was  almost  ruined. 
Thereafter,  until  his  death,  it  was  an  up-hill  struggle.  Simms  was 
frankly,  warmly  sectional  in  his  feelings,  stoutly  maintaining  the 
right  of  the  South  to  secede.  A  sympathetic  picture  of  the  days  of 
his  activity,  in  both  sunshine  and  storm,  is  given  in  Professor  Will- 
iam P.  Trent's  biography  of  him  prepared  for  the  ^American  Men  of 
Letters^  series.  Simms  published  more  than  thirty  volumes  of  novels 
and  shorter  tales:  his  verse  alone  counts  up  to  nearly  twenty  books, 
and  in  addition  he  wrote  histories,  —  including  several  books  of  South 
Carolina  biographies,  —  edited  various  standard  authors,  and  contrib- 
uted almost  countless  articles  to  periodicals.  The  voluminous  nature 
of  his  writings  explains  the  ephemerality  of  much  of  his  work,  and 
suggests  his  faults,  —  carelessness  of  style  and  looseness  of  construc- 
tion, and  an  inclination  to  the  sensational.  Simms's  bloody  scenes  are 
generally  in  full  view  of  the  audience :  he  did  not  see  the  value  of 
reserve.  But  his  good  qualities  are  positive :  he  has  lively  charac- 
terization, brisk  movement,  a  sense  of  the  picturesque,  and  great 
fertility  of  invention. 

It  is  unnecessary,  in  the  case  of  a  writer  so  fecund,  to  catalogue 
his  works: 'the  most  powerful  and  artistic  are  those  dealing  with  his 
native  State;  and  the  chapter  quoted  from  ^ The  Yemassee,^  the  most 
popular  and  perhaps  the  best  of  all  his  fiction, —  a  story  describing 
the  uprising  of  the  Indian  tribe  of  that  name,  and  the  bravery  of  the 
early  Carolinians  in  repiilsing  them,  —  gives  an  admirable  idea  of  his 
gift  for  the  graphic  presentation  of  a  dramatic  scene.  <  Guy  Rivers,* 
in  1834,  was  Simms's  first  decided  success  in  native  romance;  and 
crude  as  it  is,  has  plenty  of  bustling  action  to  hold  the  attention. 
The  Revolutionary  quadrilogy  beginning  with  ^  The  Partisan*  (1835), 
and  ending  with  <  Katharine  Walton*  (185 1),  including  also  <  Melli- 
champe  *  and  <  The  Kinsman,* — all  tales  of  Marion  and  his  troopers 
and  the  British  campaign  in  the  Carolinas;  the  group  of  short  stories 
known  as  <  Wigwam  and  Cabin*  (1845),  dealing  with  frontier  and 
Indian    life;    and   the   much    later   <  The    Cassique    of    Kiawah  *    (i860). 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS  13447 

which  depicts  colonial  days  in  Charleston, —  are  superior  examples  of 
his  scope  and  style.  Both  the  American  and  English  public  of  that 
day  took  to  his  work :  ten  of  his  novels  received  German  translation. 
Simms  was  conscientious  and  indefatigable  in  getting  the  material 
for  his  tales :  reading  the  authorities  in  print  and  manuscript,  travel- 
ing in  order  to  study  the  physical  aspects  of  the  country  and  gather 
oral  legends  and  scraps  of  local  history.  Thus  he  came  to  know 
well,  and  to  be  able  to  reproduce  with  truth  and  spirit,  the  Indians 
and  white  men  who  filled  his  mind's  eye.  The  reader  of  to-day 
is  more  likely  to  underestimate  than  to  overestimate  Simms  in  this 
regard.  He  was  a  writer  with  a  very  conspicuous  talent  for  char- 
acter limning  and  narrative,  which  was  aided  by  years  of  ceaseless 
pen-work.  Under  less  practical  pressure,  and  with  a  keener  sense 
of  the  obligation  of  the  artist  to  his  art,  he  might  have  ranked  with 
Cooper.  As  it  is,  with  all  allowance  for  shortcomings,  he  is  an  agree- 
able figure  whether  he  be  considered  as  author  or  man. 


THE  DOOM   OF   OCCONESTOGA 
From  <  The  Yemassee  * 

IT  WAS  a  gloomy  amphitheatre  in  the  deep  forests  to  which  the 
assembled  multitude  bore  the  unfortunate  Occonestoga.  The 
whole  scene  was  unique  in  that  solemn  grandeur,  that  sombre 
hue,  that  deep  spiritual  repose,  in  which  the  human  imagination 
delights  to  invest  the  region  which  has  been  rendered  remarkable 
for  the  deed  of  punishment  or  crime.  A  small  swamp  or  morass 
hung  upon  one  side  of  the  wood;  from  the  rank  bosom  of  which, 
in  numberless  millions,  the  flickering  firefly  perpetually  darted 
upwards,  giving  a  brilliance  and  animation  to  the  spot,  which  at 
that  moment  no  assemblage  of  light  or  life  could  possibly  en- 
liven. The  ancient  oak,  a  bearded  Druid,  was  there  to  contribute 
to  the  due  solemnity  of  all  associations;  the  green  but  gloomy 
cedar,  the  ghostly  cypress,  and  here  and  there  the  overgrown 
pine, —  all  rose  up  in  their  primitive  strength,  and  with  an  under- 
growth around  them  of  shrub  and  flower  that  scarcely  at  any 
time,  in  that  sheltered  and  congenial  habitation,  had  found  it 
necessary  to  shrink  from  winter.  In  the  centre  cf  the  area  thus 
invested  rose  a  high  and  venerable  mound,  the  tumulus  of  many 
preceding  ages,  from  the  washed  sides  of  which  might  now  and 
then  be  seen  protruding  the  bleached  bones  of  some  ancient  war- 
rior  or   sage.     A   circle  of   trees  at  a   little  distance   hedged   it  in, 


1344^  WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS 

made  secure  and  sacred  by  the  performance  there  of  many  of 
their  religious  rites  and  offices, — themselves,  as  they  bore  the 
broad  arrow  of  the  Yemassee,  being  free  from  all  danger  of  over- 
throw or  desecration  by  Indian  hands. 

Amid  the  confused  cries  of  the  multitude,  they  bore  the  capt- 
ive to  the  foot  of  the  tumulus,  and  bound  him  backward,  half 
reclining  upon  a  tree.  A  hundred  warriors  stood  around,  armed 
according  to  the  manner  of  the  nation, —  each  with  a  tomahawk 
and  knife  and  bow.  They  stood  up  as  for  battle,  but  spectators 
simply,  and  took  no  part  in  a  proceeding  which  belonged  en- 
tirely to  the  priesthood.  In  a  wider  and  denser  circle  gathered 
hundreds  more:  not  the  warriors,  but  the  people, —  the  old,  the 
young,  the  women  and  the  children,  all  fiercely  excited,  and  anx- 
ious to  see  a  ceremony  so  awfully  exciting  to  an  Indian  imagina- 
tion; involving  as  it  did  not  only  the  perpetual  loss  of  human 
caste  and  national  consideration,  but  the  eternal  doom,  the  degra- 
dation, the  denial  of  and  the  exile  from  their  simple  forest  heaven. 
Interspersed  with  this  latter  crowd,  seemingly  at  regular  intervals, 
and  with  an  allotted  labor  assigned  them,  came  a  number  of  old 
women:  not  unmeet  representatives,  individually,  for  either  of  the 
weird  sisters  of  the  Scottish  thane, 

*So  withered  and  so  Wild  in  their  attire;* 

and  regarding  their  cries  and  actions,  of  whom  we  may  safely 
affirm  that  they  looked  like  anything  but  inhabitants  of  earth! 
In  their  hands  they  bore,  each  of  them,  a  flaming  torch  of  the 
rich  and  gummy  pine;  and  these  they  waved  over  the  heads  of 
the  multitude  in  a  thousand  various  evolutions,  accompanying 
each  movement  with  a  fearful  cry,  which  at  regular  periods  was 
chorused  by  the  assembled  mass.  A  bugle  —  a  native  instrument 
of  sound,  five  feet  or  more  in  length;  hollowed  out  from  the 
commonest  timber,  the  cracks  and  breaks  of  which  were  care- 
fully sealed  up  with  the  resinous  ;.^um  oozing  from  their  burning 
torches;  and  which  to  this  day,  borrowed  from  the  natives,  our 
negroes  employ  on  the  Southern  waters  with  a  peculiar  compass 
and  variety  of  note  —  was  carried  by  one  of  the  party;  and  gave 
forth  at  intervals,  timed  with  much  regularity,  a  long,  protracted, 
single  blast,  adding  greatly  to  the  wild  and  picturesque  character 
of  the  spectacle.  At.  the  articulation  of  these  sounds,  the  circles 
continue   to  contract,  though    slowly;    until   at  length   but  a  brief 


II 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS  13449 

space  lay  between  the  armed  warriors,  the  crowd,  and  the  un- 
happy victim. 

The  night  grew  dark  of  a  sudden;  and  the  sky  was  obscured 
by  one  of  the  brief  tempests  that  usually  usher  in  the  summer, 
and  mark  the  transition,  in  the  South,  of  one  season  to  another. 
A  wild  gust  rushed  along  the  wood.  The  leaves  were  whirled 
over  the  heads  of  the  assemblage,  and  the  trees  bent  downwards 
until  they  cracked  and  groaned  again  beneath  the  wind.  A  feel- 
ing of  natural  superstition  crossed  the  minds  of  the  multitude, 
as  the  hurricane,  though  common  enough  in  that  region,  passed 
hurriedly  along ;  and  a  spontaneous  and  universal  voice  of  chanted 
prayer  rose  from  the  multitude,  in  their  own  wild  and  emphatic 
language,  to  the  evil  deity  whose  presence  they  beheld  in  its 
progress :  — 

«  Thy  wing,  Opitchi-Manneyto, 
It  o'erthrows  the  tall  trees  — 
Thy  breath,  Opitchi-Manneyto, 
Makes  the  waters  tremble  — 
Thou  art  in  the  hurricane, 
When  the  wigwam  tumbles  — 
Thou  art  in  the  arrow  fire, 
When  the  pine  is  shivered  — 
But  upon  the  Yemassee 
Be  thy  coming  gentle  — 
Are  they  not  thy  well-beloved  ? 
Bring  they  not  a  slave  to  thee  ? 
Look!  the  slave  is  bound  for  thee, 
'Tis  the  Yemassee  that  brings  him. 
Pass,  Opitchi-Manneyto  — 
Pass,  black  spirit,  pass  from  us  — 
Be  thy  passage  gentle.* 

And  as  the  uncouth  strain  rose  at  the  conclusion  into  a  diapason 
of  unanimous  and  contending  voices, —  of  old  and  young,  male  and 
female, —  the  brief  summer  tempest  had  gone  by.  A  shout  of  self- 
gratulation,  joined  with  warm  acknowledgments,  testified  the  popu- 
lar sense  and  confidence  in  that  especial  Providence,  which  even 
the  most  barbarous  nations  claim  as  forever  working  in  their 
behalf. 

At  this  moment,  surrounded  by  the  chiefs,  and  preceded  by 
the  great  prophet  or  high-priest,  Enoree-Mattee,  came  Sanutee, 
the  well-beloved  of  the  Yemassee,  to  preside  over  the  destinies  of 


12450  WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS 

his  son.  There  was  a  due  and  becoming  solemnity,  but  nothing 
of  the  peculiar  feelings  of  the  father,  visible  in  his  countenance. 
Blocks  of  wood  were  placed  around  as  seats  for  the  chiefs;  but 
Sanutee  and  the  prophet  threw  themselves,  with  more  of  impos- 
ing veneration  in  the  proceeding,  upon  the  edge  of  the  tumulus, 
just  where  an  overcharged  spot,  bulging  out  with  the  crowding 
bones  of  its  inmates,  had  formed  an  elevation  answering  the 
purpose  of  couch  or  seat.  They  sat  directly  looking  upon  the 
prisoner;  who  reclined,  bound  securely  upon  his 'back  to  a  decapi- 
tated tree,  at  a  little  distance  before  them.  A  signal  having  been 
given,  the  women  ceased  their  clamors;  and  approaching  him, 
they  waved  their  torches  so  closely  above  his  head  as  to  make  all 
his  features  distinctly  visible  to  the  now  watchful  and  silent  mul- 
titude. He  bore  the  examination  with  stern,  unmoved  features, 
which  the  sculptor  in  brass  or  marble  might  have  been  glad  to 
transfer  to  his  statue  in  the  block.  While  the  torches  waved, 
one  of  the  women  now  cried  aloud,  in  a  barbarous  chant,  above 
him:  — 

*  Is  not  this  a  Yemassee  ? 

Wherefore  is  he  bound  thus  — 

Wherefore  with  the  broad  arrow 

On  his  right  arm  growing, 

Wherefore  is  he  bound  thus  ? 

Is  not  this  a  Yemassee  ?  '^ 

A  second  woman  now  approached  him,  waving  her  torch  in  like 
manner,  seeming  closely  to  inspect  his  features,  and  actually 
passing  her  fingers  over  the  emblem  upon  his  shoulder,  as  if  to 
ascertain  more  certainly  the  truth  of  the  image.  Having  done 
this,  she  turned  about  to  the  crowd,  and  in  the  same  barbarous 
sort  of  strain  with  the  preceding,  replied  as  follows:  — 

*It  is  not  the  Yemassee, 
But  a  dog  that  runs  away. 
From  his  right  arm  take  the  arrow, 
He  is  not  the  Yemassee.'* 

As  these  words  were  uttered,  the  crowd  of  women  and  children 
around  cried  out  for  the  execution  of  the  judgment  thus  given; 
and  once  again  flamed  the  torches  wildly,  and  the  shoutings 
were  general  among  the  multitude.  When  they  had  subsided,  a 
huge  Indian   came  forward  and   sternly  confronted  the  prisoner. 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS  13451 

This  man  was  Malatchie,  the  executioner;  and  he  looked  the  hor- 
rid trade  which  he  professed.  His  garments  were  stained  and 
smeared  with  blood,  and  covered  with  scalps,  which,  connected 
together  by  slight  strings,  formed  a  loose  robe  over  his  shoulders. 
In  one  hand  he  carried  a  torch,  in  the  other  a  knife.  He  came 
forward,  under  the  instructions  of  Enoree-Mattee  the  prophet,  to 
claim  the  slave  of  Opitchi-Manneyto, —  that  is,  in  our  language, 
the  slave  of  hell.     This  he  did  in  the  following  strain:  — 

"  'Tis  Opitchi-Manneyto 
In  Malatchie's  ear  that  cries:  — 
*This  is  not  the  Yemassee, — 
And  the  woman's  word  is  true, — 
He's  a  dog  that  should  be  mine: 
I  have  hunted  for  him  long. 
From  his  master  he  had  run. 
With  the  stranger  made  his  home; 
Now  I  have  him,  he  is  mine : 
Hear  Opitchi-Manneyto.*'* 

And  as  the  besmeared  and  malignant  executioner  howled  his 
fierce  demand  in  the  very  ears  of  his  victim,  he  hurled  the  knife 
which  he  carried,  upwards  with  such  dexterity  into  the  air,  that 
it  rested  point  downward  and  sticking  fast,  on  its  descent,  into 
the  tree  and  just  above  the  head  of  the  doomed  Occonestoga. 
With  his  hand,  the  next  instant,  he  laid  a  resolute  gripe  upon 
the  shoulder  of  the  victim,  as  if  to  confirm  and  strengthen  his 
claim  by  actual  possession;  while  at  the  same  time,  with  a  sort  of 
malignant  pleasure,  he  thrust  his  besmeared  and  distorted  visage 
close  into  the  face  of  his  prisoner.  Writhing  against  the  liga- 
ments which  bound  him  fast,  Occonestoga  strove  to  turn  his  head 
aside  from  the  disgusting  and  obtrusive  presence;  and  the  des- 
peration of  his  effort,  but  that  he  had  been  too  carefully  secured, 
might  have  resulted  in  the  release  of  some  of  his  limbs;  for 
the  breast  heaved  and  labored,  and  every  muscle  of  his  arms  and 
legs  was  wrought,  by  his  severe  action,  into  so  many  ropes, — 
hard,  full,  and  indicative  of  prodigious  strength. 

There  was  one  person  in  that  crowd  who  sympathized  with 
the  victim.  This  was  Hiwassee,  the  maiden  in  whose  ears  he 
had  uttered  a  word,  which,  in  her  thoughtless  scream  and  subse- 
quent declai-ation  of  the  event,  wh^n   she  had  identified  him,  had 


12452  WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS 

been  the  occasion  of  his  captivity.  Something  of  self-reproach 
for  her  share  in  his  misfortune,  and  an  old  feeling  of  regard  for 
Occonestoga, —  who  had  once  been  a  favorite  with  the  young  of 
both  sexes  among  his  people, —  was  at  work  in  her  bosom;  and 
turning  to  Echotee,  her  newly  accepted  lover,  as  soon  as  the 
demand  of  Malatchie  had  been  heard,  she  prayed  him  to  resist 
the  demand. 

In  such  cases,  all  that  a  warrior  had  to  do  was  simply  to  join 
issue  upon  the  claim,  and  the  popular  will  then  determined  the 
question.  Echotee  could  not  resist  an  application  so  put  to  him, 
and  by  one  who  had  just  listened  to  a  prayer  of  his  own  so  all- 
important  to  his  own  happiness;  and  being  himself  a  noble  youth, 
—  one  who  had  been  a  rival  of  the  captive  in  his  better  days, — 
a  feeling  of  generosity  combined  with  the  request  of  Hiwassee, 
and  he  boldly  leaped  forward.  Seizing  the  knife  of  Malatchie, 
which  stuck  in  the  tree,  he  drew  it  forth  and  threw  it  upon  the 
ground;  thus  removing  the  sign  of  property  which  the  execu- 
tioner had  put  up  in  behalf  of  the  evil  deity. 

^^Occonestoga  is  the  brave  of  the  Yemassee,'^  exclaimed  the 
young  Echotee,  while  the  eyes  of  the  captive  looked  what  his 
lips  could  not  have  said.  ^^  Occonestoga  is  a  brave  of  Yemassee : 
he  is  no  dog  of  Malatchie.  Wherefore  is  the  cord  ■  upon  the 
limbs  of  a  free  warrior  ?  Is  not  Occonestoga  a  free  warrior  of 
Yemassee  ?  The  eyes  of  Echotee  have  looked  upon  a  warrior  like 
Occonestoga  when  he  took  many  scalps.  Did  not  Occonestoga 
lead  the  Yemassee  against  the  Savannahs  ?  The  eyes  of  Echo- 
tee saw  him  slay  the  red-eyed  Suwannee,  the  great  chief  of  the 
Savannahs.  Did  not  Occonestoga  go  on  the  war-path  with  our 
young  braves  against  the  Edistoes, —  the  brown  foxes  that  came 
out  of  the  swamp  ?  The  eyes  of  Echotee  beheld  him.  Occone- 
stoga is  a  brave,  and  a  hunter  of  Yemassee:  he  is  not  the  dog 
of  Malatchie.  He  knows  not  fear.  He  hath  an  arrow  with 
wings,  and  the  panther  he  runs  down  in  the  chase.  His  tread 
is  the  tread  of  a  sly  serpent,  that  comes  so  that  he  hears  him 
not  upon  the  track  of  the  red  deer,  feeding  down  in  the  valley. 
Echotee  knows  the  warrior;  Echotee  knows  the  hunter;  he  knows 
Occonestoga, — but  he  knows  no  dog  of  Opitchi-Manneyto." 

^*  He  hath  drunk  of  the  poison  drink  of  the  palefaces;  his 
feet  are  gone  from  the  good  path  of  the  Yemassee;  he  would 
sell  his   people   to   the   Engrlish   for   a   painted   bird.     He   is  the 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS  13453 

slave  of  Opitchi-Manneyto,**  cried  Malatchie  in  reply.  Echotee 
was  not  satisfied  to  yield  the  point  so  soon,  and  he  responded 
accordingly. 

"  It  is  true ;  the  feet  of  the  young  warrior  have  gone  away 
from  the  good  paths  of  the  Yemassee:  but  I  see  not  the  weak- 
ness of  the  chief  when  my  eye  looks  back  upon  the  great  deeds 
of  the  warrior.  I  see  nothing  but  the  shrinking  body  of  Suwannee 
under  the  knee  —  under  the  knife  of  the  Yemassee.  I  hear  noth- 
ing but  the  war-whoop  of  the  Yemassee,  when  he  broke  through 
the  camp  of  the  brown  foxes,  and  scalped  them  where  they 
skulked  in  the  swamp.  I  see  this  Yemassee  strike  the  foe  and 
take  the  scalp,  and  I  know  Occonestoga, — Occonestoga,  the  son 
of  the  well-beloved,  the  great  chief  of  the  Yemassee.'* 

^' It  is  good;  Occonestoga  has  thanks  for  Echotee;  Echotee 
is  a  brave  warrior !  '*  murmured  the  captive  to  his  champion, 
in  tones  of  melancholy  acknowledgment.  The  current  of  public 
feeling  began  to  set  somewhere  in  behalf  of  the  victim,  and  an 
occasional  whisper  to  that  effect  might  be  heard  here  and  there 
among  the  multitude.  Even  Malatchie  himself  looked  for  a 
moment  as  if  he  thought  it  not  improbable  that  he  might  be 
defrauded  of  his  prey;  and  while  a  free  shout  from  many  attested 
the  compliment  which  all  were  willing  to  pay  to  Echotee  for  his 
magnanimous  defense  of  one  who  had  once  been  a  rival  —  and 
not  always  successful  —  in  the  general  estimation,  the  executioner 
turned  to  the  prophet  and  to  Sanutee,  as  if  doubtful  whether  or 
not  to  proceed .  farther  in  his  claim.  But  all  doubt  was  soon 
quieted,  as  the  stern  father  rose  before  the  assembly.  Every 
sound  was  stilled  in  expectation  of  his  words  on  this  so  moment- 
ous an  occasion  to  himself.  They  waited  not  long.  The  old 
man  had  tasked  all  the  energies  of  the  patriot,  not  less  than  of 
the  stoic;  and  having  once  determined  upon  the  necessity  of  the 
sacrifice,  he  had  no  hesitating  fears  or  scruples  palsying  his  deter- 
mination. He  seemed  not  to  regard  the  imploring  glance  of 
his  son,  seen  and  felt  by  all  besides  in  the  assembly;  but  with 
a  voice  entirely  imaffected  by  the  circumstances  of  his  position, 
he  spoke  forth  the  doom  of  the  victim  in  confirmation  with  that 
originally  expressed. 

"  Echotee  has  spoken  like  a  brave  warrior  with  a  tongue  of 
truth,  and  a  soul  that  has  birth  with  the  sun.  But  he  speaks 
out    of   his   own   heart,  and   does   not   speak    to  the  heart  of  the 


12454  WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS 

traitor.  The  Yemassee  will  all  say  for  Echotee,  but  who  can 
say  for  Occonestoga  when  Sanutee  himself  is  silent  ?  Does  the 
Yemassee  speak  with  a  double  tongue  ?  Did  not  the  Yemassee 
promise  Occonestoga  to  Opitchi-Manneyto  with  the  other  chiefs? 
Where  are  they  ?  They  are  gone  into  the  swamp,  where  the 
sun  shines  not,  and  the  eyes  of  Opitchi-Manneyto  are  upon  them. 
He  knows  them  for  his  slaves.  The  arrow  is  gone  from  their 
shoulders,  and  the  Yemassee  knows  them  no  longer.  Shall  the 
dog  escape  who  led  the  way  to  the  English — who  brought  the 
poison  drink  to  the  chiefs,  which  made  them  dogs  to  the  English 
and  slaves  to  Opitchi-Manneyto  ?  Shall  he  escape  the  doom  the 
Yemassee  hath  put  upon  them  ?  Sanutee  speaks  the  voice  of  the 
Manneyto.  Occonestoga  is  a  dog,  who  would  sell  his  father  — 
who  would  make  our  women  to  carry  water  for  the  palefaces. 
He  is  not  the  son  of  Sanutee  —  Sanutee  knows  him  no  more. 
Look,  Yemassees, —  the   Well-beloved   has  spoken!" 

He  paused,  and  turning  away,  sank  down  silently  upon  the 
little  bank  on  which  he  had  before  rested;  while  Malatchie,  with- 
out further  opposition, —  for  the  renunciation  of  his  own  son, 
by  one  so  highly  esteemed  as  Sanutee,  was  conclusive  against 
the  youth, —  advanced  to  execute  the  terrible  judgment  upon  his 
victim. 

"  O  father,  chief,  Sanutee  the  Well-beloved !  '*  was  the  cry  that 
now,  for  the  first  time,  burst  convulsively  from  the  lips  of  the 
prisoner:  ^'hear  me,  father, —  Occonestoga  will  go  on  the  war- 
path with  thee  and  with  the  Yemassee  against  the  Edisto,  against 
the  Spaniard;  hear,  Sanutee, —  he  will  go  with  thee  against  the 
English."  But  the  old  man  bent  not,  yielded  not,  and  the  crowd 
gathered  nigher  in  the  intensity  of  their  interest. 

"  Wilt  thou  have  no  ear,  Sanutee  ?  It  is  Occonestoga,  it  is 
the  son  of  Matiwan,  that  speaks  to  thee."  Sanutee's  head  sank 
as  the  reference  was  made  to  Matiwan,  but  he  showed  no  other 
sign  of  emotion.  He  moved  not,  he  spoke  not;  and  bitterly  and 
hopelessly  the  youth  exclaimed :  — 

**0h!  thou  art  colder  than  the  stone  house  of  the  adder,  and 
deafer  than  his  ears.  Father,  Sanutee,  wherefore  wilt  thou  lose 
me,  even  as  the  tree  its  leaf,  when  the  storm  smites  it  in  sum- 
mer ?     Save  me,  my  father. " 

And  his  head  sank  in  despair  as  he  beheld  the  unchanging 
look  of   stern   resolve   with   which    the   unbending   sire   regarded 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS  13455 

him.  For  a  moment  he  was  unmanned;  until  a  loud  shout  of 
derision  from  the  crowd,  as  they  beheld  the  show  of  his  weak- 
ness, came  to  the  support  of  his  pride.  The  Indian  shrinks  from 
humiliation,  where  he  would  not  shrink  from  death;  and  as  the 
shout  reached  his  ears,  he  shouted  back  his  defiance,  raised  his 
head  loftily  in  air,  and  with  the  most  perfect  composure  com- 
menced  singing  his  song  of   death, —  the   song  of  many  victories. 

^*  Wherefore  sings  he  his  death-song  ?  '^  was  the  cry  from  inany 
voices :   "  he  is  not  to  die !  '^ 

"Thou  art  the  slave  of  Opitchi-Manneyto,*  cried  Malatchie 
to  the  captive ;  "  thou  shalt  sing  no  lie  of  thy  victories  in  the 
ear  of  Yemassee.  The  slave  of  Opitchi-Manneyto  has  no  tri- 
umph ;  '*  and  the  words  of  the  song  were  effectually  drowned,  if 
not  silenced,  in  the  tremendous  clamor  which  they  raised  about 
him. 

It  was  then  that  Malatchie  claimed  his  victim.  The  doom  had 
been  already  given,  but  the  ceremony  of  expatriation  and  out- 
lawry was  yet  to  follow;  and  under  the  direction  of  the  prophet, 
the  various  castes  and  classes  of  the  nation  prepared  to  take  a 
final  leave  of  one  who  could  no  longer  be  known  among  them. 
First  of  all  came  a  band  of  young  marriageable  women,  who, 
wheeling  in  a  circle  three  times  about  him,  sang  together  a  wild 
apostrophe  containing  a  bitter  farewell,  which  nothing  in  our  lan- 
guage could  perfectly  embody :  — 

**Go:  thou  hast  no  wife  in  Yemassee  —  thou  hast  given  no 
lodge  to  the  daughter  of  Yemassee  —  thou  hast  slain  no  meat 
for  thy  children.  Thou  hast  no  name  —  the  women  of  Yemassee 
know  thee  no  more.      They  know  thee  no  more.*' 

And  the  final  sentence  was  reverberated  from  the  entire 
assembly:  — 

"The}'   know  thee   no   more  —  they  know  thee   no  more.* 

Then  came  a  number  of  the  ancient  men,  the  patriarchs  of 
the  nation,  who  surrounded  him  in  circular  mazes  three  several 
times,   singing  as  they  did  so  a  hymn  of  like  import:  — 

"Go:  thou  sittest  not  in  the  council  of  Yemassee — thou  shalt 
not  speak  wisdom  to  the  boy  that  comes.  Thou  hast  no  name  in 
Yemassee  —  the   fathers  of  Yemassee,  they  know   thee  no  more.*' 

And  again  the  whole  assembly  cried  out,  as  with  one  voice:  — 

"They  know  thee  no  more  —  they  know  thee  no  more." 

These  were  followed  by  the  young  warriors,  his  old  associates, 
who  now  in  a  solemn  band   approached  him  to  go  through  a  like 


13456 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS 


performance.  His  eyes  were  shut  as  they  came,  his  blood  was 
chilled  in  his  heart,  and  the  articulated  farewell  of  their  wild 
chant  failed  seemingly  to  reach  his  ear.  Nothing  but  the  last 
sentence  he  heard: — 

<'  Thou  that  wast  a  brother, 
Thou  art  nothing  now  — 
The  young  warriors  of  Yemassee, 
They  know  thee  no  more.* 

And  the  crowd  cried  with  them :  — 

"They  know  thee  no  more.** 

"  Is  no  hatchet  sharp  for  Occonestoga  ?  **  moaned  forth  the 
suffering  savage. 

But  his  trials  were  only  then  begun.  Enoree-Mattee  now 
approached  him  with  the  words  with  which,  as  the  representa- 
tive of  the  good  Manneyto,  he  renounced  him  —  with  which  he 
denied  him  access  to  the  Indian  heaven,  and  left  him  a  slave 
and  an  outcast,  a  miserable  wanderer  amid  the  shadows  and  the 
swamps,  and  liable  to  all  the  dooms  and  terrors  which  come  with 
the  service  of  Opitchi- Manneyto, 


«  T* 


Thou  wast  a  child  of  Manneyto  —  >* 

sung   the  high  priest  in   a  solemn   chant,   and  with   a  deep-toned 
voice  that  thrilled  strangely  amid  the  silence  of  the  scene 

*Thou  wast  a  child  of  Manneyto  — 
He  gave  thee  arrows  and  an  eye; 
Thou  wast  the  strong  son  of  Manneyto  — 
He  gave  thee  feathers  and  a  wing; 
Thou  wast  a  young  brave  of  Manneyto  — 
He  gave  thee  scalps  and  a  war-song: 
But  he  knows  thee  no  more  —  he  knows  thee  no  more.*'' 

And   the    clustering   multitude    again    gave   back    the    last   line   in 
wild  chorus.     The  prophet  continued  his  chant:  — 

«  That  Opitchi-Manneyto ! 
He  commands  thee  for  his  slave  — 
And  the  Yemassee  must  hear  him. 
Hear,  and  give  thee  for  his  slave: 
They  will  take  from  thee  the  arrow. 
The  broad  arrow  of  thy  people; 
Thou  shalt  see  no  blessed  valley, 


II 


WILLIAM    GILMORE    SIMMS  I34S7 

Where  the  plum-groves  always  bloom ; 
Thou  shalt  hear  no  song  of  valor 
From  the  ancient  Yemassee : 
Father,  mother,  name,  and  people. 
Thou  shalt  lose  with  that  broad  arrow. 
Thou  art  lost  to  the  Manneyto  — 
He  knows  thee  no  more,  he  knows  thee  no  more.'* 


The  despair  of  hell  was  in  the  face  of  the  victim,  and  he 
howled  forth  in  a  cry  of  agony  —  that  for  a  moment  silenced 
the  wild  chorus  of  the  crowd  around  —  the  terrible  consciousness 
in  his  mind  of  that  privation  which  the  doom  entailed  upon  him. 
Every  feature  was  convulsed  with  emotion;  and  the  terrors  of 
Opitchi-Manneyto's  dominion  seemed  already  in  strong  exercise 
upon  the  muscles  of  his  heart,  when  Sanutee,  the  father,  silently 
approached  him,  and  with  a  pause  of  a  few  moments,  stood  gaz- 
ing upon  the  son  from  whom  he  was  to  be  separated  eternally  — 
whom  not  even  the  uniting,  the  restoring,  hand  of  death  could 
possibly  restore  to  him.  And  he,  his  once  noble  son, —  the  pride 
of  his  heart,  the  gleam  of  his  hope,  the  triumphant  warrior,  who 
was  even  to  increase  his  own  glory,  and  transmit  the  endear- 
ing title  of  Well-beloved,  which  the  Yemassee  had  given  him, 
to  a  succeeding  generation  —  he  was  to  be  lost  forever !  These 
promises  were  all.  blasted;  and  the  father  was  now  present  to 
yield  him  up  eternally  —  to  deny  him  —  to  forfeit  him,  in  fearful 
penalty,  to  the  nation  whose  genius  he  had  wronged,  and  whose 
rights  he  had  violated.  The  old  man  stood  for  a  moment, — 
rather,  we  m^ay  suppose,  for  the  recovery  of  his  resolution,  than 
with  any  desire  for  the  contemplation  of  the  pitiable  form  before 
him.  The  pride  of  the  youth  came  back  to  him  —  the  pride  of 
the  strong  mind  in  its  desolation  —  as  his  eye  caught  the  inflexi- 
ble gaze  of  his  unswerving  father;  and  he  exclaimed  bitterly  and 
loud : — 

**  Wherefore  art  thou  come  ?  Thou  hast  been  my  foe,  not 
my  father!  Away — I  would  not  behold  thee!"  and  he  closed  his 
eyes  after  the  speech,  as  if  to  relieve  himself  from  a  disgusting 
presence. 

**  Thou  hast  said  well,  Occonestoga:  Sanutee  is  thy  foe;  he  is 
not  thy  father.  To  say  this  in  thy  ears  has  he  come.  Look  on 
him,  Occonestoga  —  look  up  and  hear  thy  doom.  The  young  and 
the  old  of  the  Yemassee,  the  warrior  and  the  chief — they  have 


I345S 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS 


all  denied  thee  —  all  given  thee  up  to  Opitchi-Manneyto!  Occo- 
nestoga  is  no  name  for  the  Yemassee.  The  Yemassee  gives  it 
to  his  dog.  The  prophet  of  Manneyto  has  forgotten  thee;  thou 
art  unknown  to  those  who  were  thy  people.  And  I,  thy  father  — 
with  this  speech,  I  yield  thee  to  Opitchi-Manneyto.  Sanutee  is 
no  longer  thy  father  —  thy  father  knows  thee  no  more.'^ 

And  once  more  came  to  the  ears  of  the  victim  that  melancholy 
chorus  of  the  multitude :  —  *^  He  knows  thee  no  more,  he  knows 
thee  no  more.** 

Sanutee  turned  quickly  away  as  he  had  spoken;  and  as  if  he 
suffered  more  than  he  was  willing  to  show,  the  old  man  rapidly 
hastened  to  the  little  mound  where  he  had  been  previously  sit- 
ting, his  eyes  averted  from  the  further  spectacle.  Occonestoga, 
goaded  to  madness  by  these  several  incidents,  shrieked  forth  the 
bitterest  execrations,  until  Enoree-Mattee,  preceding  Malatchie, 
again  approached.  Having  given  some  directions  in  an  under- 
tone to  the  latter,  he  retired,  leaving  the  executioner  alone  with 
his  victim.  Malatchie  then,  while  all  was  silence  in  the  crowd, — 
a  thick  silence,  in  which  even  respiration  seemed  to  be  suspended, 
—  proceeded  to  his  duty:  and  lifting  the  feet  of  Occonestoga 
carefully  from  the  ground,  he  placed  a  log  under  them;  then 
addressing  him,  as  he  again  bared  his  knife,  which  he  stuck  in 
the  tree   above   his  head,  he   sung:  — 

<<I  take  from  thee  the  earth  of  Yemassee  — 
I  take  from  thee  the  water  of  Yemassee  — 
I  take  from  thee  the  arrow  of  Yemassee  — 
Thou  art  no  longer  a  Yemassee  — 
The  Yemassee  knows  thee  no  more.*' 

*The  Yemassee  knows  thee  no  more,**  cried  the  multitude; 
and  their  universal  shout  was  deafening  upon  the  ear.  Occo- 
nestoga said  no  word  now;  he  could  offer  no  resistance  to  the 
unnerving  hands  of  Malatchie,  who  now  bared  the  arm  more 
completely  of  its  covering.  But  his  limbs  were  convulsed  with 
the  spasms  of  that  dreadful  terror  of  the  future  which  was  rack- 
ing and  raging  in  every  pulse  of  his  heart.  He  had  full  faith 
in  the  superstitions  of  his  people.  His  terrors  acknowledged 
the  full  horrors  of  their  doom.  A  despairing  agony,  which  no 
language  could  describe,  had  possession  of  his  soul.  Meanwhile 
the  silence  of  all  indicated  the  general  anxiety;  and  Malatchie 
prepared  to  seize  the   knife  and  perform   the   operation,  when  a 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS  '3459 

confused  murmur  arose  from  the  crowd  around:  the  mass  gave 
way  and  parted;  and  rushing  wildly  into  the  area  came  Matiwan, 
his  mother  —  the  long  black  hair  streaming  —  the  features,  an 
astonishing  likeness  to  his  own,  convulsed  like  his;  and  her  ac- 
tion that  of  one  reckless  of  all  things  in  the  way  of  the  forward 
progress  she  was  making  to  the  person  of  her  child.  She  cried 
aloud  as  she  came,  with  a  voice  that  rang  like  a  sudden  death-bell 
through  the  ring:  — 

"  Would  you  keep  the  mother  from  her  boy,  and  he  to  be  lost 
to  her  for  ever  ?  Shall  she  have  no  parting  with  the  young  brave 
she  bore  in  her  bosom  ?  Away,  keep  me  not  back  —  I  will  look 
upon,  I  will  love  him.  He  shall  have  the  blessing  of  Matiwan, 
though   the   Yemassee  and  the   Manneyto  curse.'* 

The  victim  heard;  and  a  momentary  renovation  of  mental 
life,  perhaps  a  renovation  of  hope,  spoke  out  in  the  simple  excla- 
mation which  fell  from  his  lips:  — 

«  O  Matiwan  —  O  mother !  '* 

She  rushed  towards  the  spot  where  she  heard  his  appeal;  and 
thrusting  the  executioner  aside,  threw  her  arms  desperately  about 
his  neck. 

*^  Touch  him  not,  Matiwan,**  was  the  general  cry  from  the 
crowd.  "Touch  him  not,  Matiwan:  Manneyto  knows  him  no 
more.** 

"  But  Matiwan  knows  him ;  the  mother  knows  her  child, 
though  the  Manneyto  denies  him.  O  boy — O  boy,  boy,  boy!** 
And   she  sobbed  like   an  infant  on  his  neck. 

<*  Thou  art  come,  Matiwan,  thou  art  come;  but  wherefore?  To 
curse  like  the  father  —  to  curse  like  the  Manneyto?**  mournfully 
said  the   captive. 

*'  No,  no,  no !  Not  to  curse  —  not  to  curse !  When  did  mother 
curse  the  child  she  bore  ?  Not  to  curse  but  to  bless  thee.  To 
bless  thee  and  forgive.** 

"Tear  her  away,**  cried  the  prophet;  "let  Opitchi-Manneyto 
have  his  slave.** 

"Tear  her  away,  Malatchic,**  cried  the  crowd,  now  impatient 
for  the  execution.      Malatchic   approached. 

"Not  yet  —  not  yet,**  appealed  the  woman.  "Shall  not  the 
mother  say  farewell  to  the  child  she  shall  see  no  more  ?  **  and 
she  waved  Malatchic  back,  and  in  the  next  instant  drew  hastily 
from  the  drapery  of  her  dress  a  small  hatchet,  which  she  had 
there  carefully  concealed. 


1 

13460  .  WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS 

**  What  wouldst  thou  do,  Matiwan  ?  ^*  asked  Occonestoga,  as  his 
eye  caught  the  glare  of  the  weapon. 

<*  Save  thee,  my  boy  —  save  thee  for  thy  mother,  Occonestoga 
—  save  thee  for  the  happy  valley.^* 

"  Wouldst  thou  slay  me,  mother  ?  wouldst  strike  the  heart 
of  thy  son  ?  **  he  asked,  with  a  something  of  reluctance  to  receive 
death  from  the  hands  of  a  parent. 

*  I  strike  thee  but  to  save  thee,  my  son ;  since  they  cannot 
take  the  totem  from  thee  after  the  life  is  gone.  Turn  away  from 
me  thy  head;  let  me  not  look  upon  thine  eyes  as  I  strike,  lest 
my  hands  grow  weak  and  tremble.  Turn  thine  eyes  away  — 
I  will  not  lose  thee.  ^* 

His  eyes  closed;  and  the  fatal  instrument,  lifted  above  her 
head,  was  now  visible  in  the  sight  of  all.  The  executioner  rushed 
forward  to  interpose,  but  he  came  too  late.  The  tomahawk  was 
driven  deep  into  the  skull,  and  but  a  single  sentence  from  his 
lips  preceded   the   final  insensibility  of  the  victim, 

"It  is  good,  Matiwan,  it  is  good:  thou  hast  saved  me  —  the 
death  is  in  my  heart.''  And  back  he  sank  as  he  spoke;  while  a 
shriek  of  mingled  joy  and  horror  from  the  lips  of  the  mother 
announced  the  success  of  her  effort  to  defeat  the  doom,  the  most 
dreadful  in  the  imagination  of  the  Yemassee. 

"He  is  not  lost  —  he  is  not  lost!  They  may  not  take  the 
child  from  his  mother.  They  may  not  keep  him  from  the  valley 
of  Manneyto.  He  is  free — he  is  free!"  And  she  fell  back  in 
a  deep  swoon  into  the  arms  of  Sanutee,  who  by  this  time  had 
approached.  She  had  defrauded  Opitchi-Manneyto  of  his  victim, 
for  they  may  not  remove  the  badge  of  the  nation  from  any  but 
the  living  victim. 


THE   BURDEN   OF   THE   DESERT 

THE  burden  of  the  Desert, 
The  Desert  like  the  deep, 
That  from  the  south  in  whirlwinds 
Comes  rushing  up  the  steep;  — 
I  see  the  spoiler  spoiling, 

I  hear  the  strife  of  blows: 
Up,  watchman,  to  thy  heights,  and  say 
How  the  dread  conflict  goes! 


^1 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS 

What  hear'st  thou  from  the  desert? — 

"A  sound  as  if  a  world 
Were  from  its  axle  lifted  up 

And  to  an  ocean  hurled; 
The  roaring  as  of  waters, 

The  rushing  as  of  hills, 
And  lo !   the  tempest-smoke  and  cloud, 

That  all  the  desert  fills. » 

What  seest  thou  on  the  desert  ? 

"A  chariot  comes,  *^  he  cried, 
"With  camels  and  with  horsemen. 

That  travel  by  its  side; 
And  now  a  lion  darteth 

From  out  the  cloud,  and  he 
Looks  backward  ever  as  he  flies. 

As  fearing  still  to  see !  ^> 

What,  watchman,  of  the  horsemen  ?— 

"  They  come,  and  as  they  ride, 
Their  horses  crouch  and  tremble, 

Nor  toss  their  manes  in  pride; 
The  camels  wander  scattered, 

The  horsemen  heed  them  naught, 
But  speed  as  if  they  dreaded  still 

The  foe  with  whom  they  fought.® 

What  foe  is  this,  thou  watchman  ?  — 

<*Hark!  hark!  the  horsemen  come; 
Still  looking  on  the  backward  path. 

As  if  they  feared  a  doom ; 
Their  locks  are  white  with  terror, 

Their  very  shouts  a  groan : 
*  Babylon,*  they  cry,  <  has  fallen. 

And  all  her  gods  are  gone!*** 


13461 


13462 


SIMONIDES  OF  CEOS 

(B.  C.  556-468) 
BY   WALTER   MILLER 

)rom  the  steps  of  <*Tritonia's  airy  shrine,*  adorning  with  its 
glistering  columns  the  summit  of  <*Sunium's  marbled  steep,'* 
there  opens  over  mountains  and  waters  a  wide  prospect, 
which  for  natural  beauty  and  richness  of  suggestion  is  scarcely 
surpassed  in  all  the  Hellenic  world.  Separated  from  Sunium  only  by 
a  narrow  strait  of  that  wine-dark  sea,  the  nearest  of  the  <<  isles  that 
crown  the  ^gean  deep  >'  is  the  first  of  the  Cyclades, — the  island  of 
Ceos, —  Ionian  and  yet  almost  Attic.  As  it  is  impossible  to  think  of 
Stratford-on-Avon  without  a  suggestion  of  Shakespeare,  so  Ceos  has 
but  little  meaning  for  us  apart  from  her  great  bard,  Simonides. 

There,  in  the  village  of  lulis,  he  was  born  (556  B.  C),  the  son  of 
Leoprepes,  himself  a  chorus-leader  and  a  poet's  son ;  and  so,  by  right 
of  inheritance  and  education,  something  of  the  gift  of  song  was  his. 
In  the  national  festival  celebrated  near  his  home  each  year  in  honor 
of  Carthaean  Apollo,  the  young  Simonides  found  occasion  and  exercise 
for  his  native  gifts.  There  also  the  greatest  poets  of  Greece  com- 
peted for  the  choral  prize ;  and  yet  before  he  was  thirty,  that  prize 
was  his  again  and  again.  His  fame  soon  spread  far  beyond  his 
native  isle;  so  that  the  Muse-loving  Hipparchus,  when  he  came  to 
gather  round  his  court  at  Athens  the  first  artists  and  poets  of  his 
time,  at  once  sent  for  young  Simonides  to  come  from  Ceos. 

Upon  the  assassination  of  Hipparchus  (514),  Simonides  was  called 
to  Thessaly  to  be  poet-laureate  to  the  sons  of  Scopas  at  Crannon  and 
Pharsalus,  and  afterward  at  the  court  of  Larissa.  His  sound  common- 
sense,  and  the  consummate  diplomacy  with  which  he  treated  rulers 
and  handled  difficult  problems  of  statecraft,  gave  him  an  influence 
with  kings  and  statesmen  never  enjoyed  by  any  other  poet.  We  find 
him  in  his  later  years  in  the  same  position  of  honor  with  Hiero  of 
Syracuse.  His  nephew  Bacchylides  and  Pindar  were  there  too,  as 
were  also  ^schylus  and  Epicharmus;  but  it  was  Simonides  whose  in- 
fliience  told  in  affairs  of  State.  Hiero  had  quarreled  violently  with 
his  kinsman  Theron,  tyrant  of  Agrigentum;  war  had  been  declared; 
the  opposing  armies  stood  face  to  face  ready  for  battle :  the  wisdom 
and  tact  of  Simonides  won  a  bloodless  victory ;  the  warring  tyrants 
were  reconciled,  and  the  armies  marched  back  to  their  homes  in 
peace. 


SIMONIDES   OF   CEOS 


13463 


But  it  is  at  republican  Athens  that  we  find  him  at  his  best. 
Though  associated  there  with  Miltiades,  Themistocles,  Cimon,  King 
Pausanias  of  Lacedsmon,  uSschylus,  Polygnotus,  and  the  other  giants 
of  those  days  of  spiritual  uplifting  that  followed  the  Persian  wars, 
his  glory  pales  not  in  comparison.  Those  martial  heroes  beat  back 
the  Mede  at  Marathon,  Salamis,  and  Platasa;  he  glorified  the  victo- 
ries in  his  songs.  In  competition  with  the  great  warrior-poet  -^schy- 
lus  himself,  he  won  the  State  prize  with  his  ode  on  Marathon. 

Simonides  died  in  Sicily  in  his  eighty-ninth  year  (468),  and  was 
buried  before  the  gates  of  Syracuse. 

As  to  his  personal  character:  reared  in  accordance  with  the  strict 
moral  code  for  which  Ceos  was  justly  famed,  he  had  added  to  virtue 
knowledge,  and  to  knowledge  temperance  .{au<ppoavvr/).  Indeed,  Simon- 
ides's  '*  temperance  **  —  mastery  of  self,  Hellenic  ^*  sanity '*  —  had  in 
antiquity  become  proverbial.  Love  and  wine  find  no  place  in  his 
verse.  A  striking  feature  of  his  writings  is  his  tendency  to  moral 
apothegms  and  maxims.  The  wisdom  of  the  Seven  Sages  and  the 
piety  of  an  ^schylus  were  his. 

The  world  of  critics,  ancient  and  modern,  has  often  reproached 
him  with  being  the  first  poet  (though  not  the  last!)  to  sell  his  verse 
for  pay.  Exalted  Pindar  did  the  same.  And  the  calling  of  the  poet 
was  reduced  to  a  purely  business  basis.  He  knew  what  his  work 
was  worth  in  gold,  and  he  obtained  his  price.  Witness  Anaxilas  of 
Rhegium,  who  offered  our  poet  —  for  a  song  of  victory  in  honor  of 
his  mules  victorious  in  the  race  —  a  recompense  too  modest  by  half. 
Simonides  declined,  so  the  s.tory  runs,  explaining  that  he  could  not 
sing  the  praises  of  asses'  progeny.  Anaxilas  doubled  his  offer,  and 
Simonides  in  response  wrote  a  famous  ode  beginning  — 

«Hail,  daughters  of  the  storm-swift  steeds !» 

But  his  literary  contracts,  according  to  the  following  anecdote, 
were  not  always  financially  so  successful.  His  Thessalian  patron, 
Scopas,  once  engaged  him  for  a  certain  specified  sum  to  write  an  ode 
in  his  honor :  when  the  ode  was  finished  and  sung,  Scopas  would  pay 
only  half  the  stipulated  honorarium,  bidding  Simonides  collect  the 
other  half  from  the  Dioscuri  whose  praises  had  filled  as  large  a  por- 
tion of  the  ode  as  his  own.  The  grateful  return  was  paid  in  full  by 
the  sons  of  Zeus:  Scopas.  his  sons,  and  all  his  court  were  banquet- 
ing; the  palace  roof  fell  with  a  crash  upon  them,  and  Simonides 
alone   was   saved.     The   gods  are   ^'better  pay"   than   "tyrants"! 

Simonides  was  the  most  productive  of  the  Greek  lyrists,  as  his 
Muse  was  the  most  versatile.  In  no  less  than  fifty-six  public  con- 
tests, so  he  tells  us,  at  fifty-six  public  festivals,  his  lyrical  composi- 
tions gained  the  first  prize ;  and  there  may  have  been  more  after 
that    was    written, —  phenomenal    success,   when    we    remember    that 


13464  SIMONIDES   OF    CEOS 

Euripides,  the  favorite  of  the  Hellenic  world,  received  first  prize 
but  five  times.  His  successes  moreover  were  commensurate  with 
his  years.  We  have  another  epigram  in  which  he  rejoices  to  have 
won  at  Athens,  in  his  eighty-first  year  (476),  the  first  prize  with  a 
composition  of  his  own  produced  by  a  chorus  of  fifty  voices,  with 
Aristides  the  Just  as  choragos.  And  his  public  victories  must,  in 
comparison  with  his  odes  written  for  private  individuals  and  his 
spontaneous  bursts  of  song,  have  been  only  the  smallest  part  of  his 
life's  work. 

His  productions  cover  almost  every  field  of  lyrical  composition. 
No  sort  of  choral  song  seems  to  have  been  wanting  from  his  reper- 
toire. We  have  fragments  of  Paeans,  Hymns,  Dithyrambs,  Hypor- 
chemes,  Epinicia,  Elegies,-  Dirges,  and  more,  besides  the  Epigrams. 

It  is  upon  the  epigrams  that  his  greatest  fame  must  rest,  as  they 
alone  of  the  extant  remains  do  not  consist  of  mere  fragments.  The 
epigram  was  originally  what  the  name  implies,  —  the  inscription  upon 
a  tomb  or  upon  a  votive  offering  to  explain  its  significance.  By  a 
natural  transfer  of  meaning,  an  epigram  easily  came  to  be  a  couple 
of  verses  containing  in  pointed,  polished  form,  a  thought  which  might 
very  well  serve  as  an  inscription  to  the  object  that  suggested  it. 
The  unexpected  —  the  ingenious  turning  of  the  point  at  the  end  — 
was  no  essential  feature  of  the  classical  epigram;  but  within  the 
compass  of  the  few  verses  allotted  to  it,  the  story  it  had  to  tell  must 
be  complete.  And  no  one  possessed  in  like  degree  the  gift  Simoni- 
des  had,  of  crowding  a  bookful  of  meaning  into  two  faultless  lines. 
Upon  the  tomb  of  the  Three  Hundred  at  Thermopylae  he  wrote:  — 

Go  thou,  stranger,  and  bear  to  Lacedaemon  this  message:  — 
Tell  them  that  here  we  lie,  faithful  to  Sparta's  commands. 

How  long  a  poem  he  might  with  such  a  theme  have  made !  But  in 
two  lines,  without  a  trace  of  artificiality  or  forced  rhetoric,  he  has 
sketched  the  Spartan  character,  and  told  the  whole  story  of  that 
loyal  devotion  to  country  that  meant  so  much  to  every  Greek.  De- 
scription there  is  none:  that  would  have  been  superfluous.  No  word 
of  praise  is  there :   the  deeds  were  their  own  encomium. 

Diophon,  Philo's  son,  at  the  Isthmus  and  Pytho  a  victor; 
Broad  jump,  foot-race,  disk,  spear-throw,  and  wrestle  he  won. 

In  one  line  he  gives  his  hero's  name,  his  lineage,  and  his  victory  at 
two  great  festivals;  into  the  five  words  of  the  pentameter  line  with 
consummate  skill  he  puts  in  the  exact  order  of  their  succession  in 
the  stadium  the  five  events  of  the  Greek  pentathlon,  in  which  Philo's 
son  was  victor. 


SIMONIDES  OF   CEOS 


13465 


The  finest  and  most  famous  of  all  his  epigrams  are  those  inspired 
by  the  Persian  wars.  The  glory  of  those  days  permeated  his  verse; 
the  life  of  the  victorious  living  and  the  death  of  the  noble  slain  are 
both  glorified.  These  verses  may  be  wanting  in  splendor  and  mag- 
nificence: the  man  who  could  have  furnished  those  qualities  had 
« stood  on  the  wrong  side  in  his  country's  life  struggle;  and  Greece 
turned  to  Simonides,  not  to  Pindar,  to  make  the  record  of  her  heroic 
dead.'*  (Murray.)  A  few  even  of  these  are  no  more  than  plain,  pro- 
saic statements  of  fact.     Compare  — 

When,  as  leader  of  Greece,  he  routed  the  Median  army, 
King  Pausanias  gave  Phoebus  this  off'ring  of  thanks, — 

with  the  simple  lines  on  the  men  of  Tegea  who  fell  at  Plataeae:  — 

Thanks  to  the  valor  of  these  men!  that  smoke  never  blackened  the 
heavens, 
Rising  from  Median  flames  blazing  in  Tegean  homes. 
Theirs  was  to  leave  to  their  children  a  city  of  glory  and  freedom, 
Theirs  to  lay  down  their  lives,  slain  in  defense  of  their  own, — 

and  the  general  epitaph  of  the  heroes  of  Platasae:  — 

Glory  immortal  they  left  a  bequest  to  the  land  of  their  fathers  — 

Fame  for  the  land  they  loved;  death's  sable  shroud  for  themselves. 

Still,  though  dead,  are  they  not  dead ;  for  here  their  virtue  abiding 
Brings  them  from  Hades  again,  gives  them  a  glorious  life. 

A  difficulty  which  taxed  the  epigrammatist's  utmost  skill  to  sur- 
mount was  the  graceful  weaving  in  of  unmetrical  names,  of  dates, 
and  of  other  naturally  prosaic  necessities.  How  well  Simonides  could 
handle  even  these  is  illustrated  by  the  two  following  autobiographical 
notices:  — 

Chief  of  the  Archons  in  Athens  that  year  they  named  Adimantus, 
When  the  fair  tripod  of  bronze  fell  to  Antiochis's  tribe. 

That  year  Xenophilus's  son,  Aristides  the  Just,  was  choragos. 
Leader  of  fifty  men  singing  the  praise  of  the  god. 

Glory  was  won  for  their  trainer,  Simonides, —  poet  victorious, — 
Ceian  Leoprepes's  son,  then  in  his  eightieth  year. 

FiFTY-AND-six  great  bulls,  Simonides,  fell  to  thee,  prizes. 
Tripods  fifty-and-six,  won  ere  this  tablet  was  set. 

So  many  times  having  trained  the  gladsome  chorus  of  singers, 
Victory's  splendid  car  glorious  didst  thou  ascend. 

The  following  is  brevity  "  gone  to  seed  >* :  — 

«  Tell  me  then  who  thou  art.    W^hose  son?    Of  what  country?    What  victory ?» 
«Casmyl.     Euagoras's  son.     From  Rhodes.     Boxing  at  Pytho.'* 


13466 


SIMONIDES  OF   CEOS 


In  the  epigrams  the  dialect  is  Attic;  in  the  choral  odes  the  con- 
ventional Doric  has  been  retained. 

The  "epinician,'*  the  choral  song  in  honor  of  a  victor  in  the  great 
national  games  of  Greece,  may  almost  be  called  Simonides's  own  cre- 
ation. Down  to  the  times  of  Simonides  a  few  verses  had  sufficed; 
but  with  him  came  the  full  artistic  structure  of  the  magnificent 
epinician  ode  as  we  find  it  perfected  in  Pindar.  With  the  glorifica- 
tion of  the  victor,  the  praises  of  a  god  or  a  mythical  hero  connected 
with  the  victor  —  his  fortunes,  his  family,  or  his  country  —  are  appro- 
priately interwoven.  Passing  on  by  easy  transitions  from  the  human 
to  the  divine,  and  from  the  divine  again  to  the  human,  the  poet  dwells 
upon  the  lessons  of  truth  and  wisdom  suggested  by  his  hero's  life, 
and  the  god  whom  he  has  glorified.  ^<  To  be  perfectly  good  is  a  hard 
matter:  only  God  may  be  perfect;  and  man  is  good  only  as  God 
dwells  in  him.^> 

■  In  the  epinicia,  Simonides  may  fall  short  of  the  grandeur  of 
Pindar,  and  yield  supremacy  to  him  alone.  But  in  the  field  of  Elegy 
and  of  the  Dirge,  as  in  the  Epigram,  he  stands  without  a  peer  in  the 
world's  literature.  Pindar's  pathos  may  be  sublime,  ^schylus's  awful; 
but  Simonides  knows  how  to  touch  the  heart.  Pindar  philosophizes 
on  the  glory  awaiting  the  dead  whose  life  has  been  well  spent : 
Simonides  gives  expression  to  the  sorrow  of  the  hearts  that  mourn, 
and  awakens  our  sympathies;  he  knows  the  healing  power  of  tears, 
and  the  power  that  the  story  of  another's  sorrow  has  to  make  them 
flow,  when  one's  own  grief  seems  to  have  dried  their  fountain.  He 
dwells  upon  the  frailty  of  human  fortunes,  the  inevitability  of  fate, 
and  the  goodness  and  justice  of  God, —  the  consolation  of  sympa- 
thy, not  of  hope.  What  th-enos  could  be  more  exquisitely  delicate 
and  touching  than  Danae's  mother-heart  yearning  over  her  sleeping 
babe,  —  unconscious  of  any  danger, —  as  together  in  the  chest  they 
are  helplessly  tossed  by  the  storm  upon  the  waves;  and  the  tearful 
appeal  at  the  end  to  Zeus,  the  father  of  her  child!  And  as  she 
prays,   the   storm  in  her  own  bosom  is  stilled. 

No  less  fine,  in  exquisite  pathos  and  exalted  patriotic  sentiment, 
are  the  few  verses  left  to  us  of  the  elegy  on  the  heroes  of  Ther- 
mopylae.     It   is   quoted   in    full    below. 

Simonides's  position  among  the  melic  poets  may  be  suggested  by 
the  influence  he  exercised  on  the  development  of  lyric  poetry,  espe- 
cially in  choral  song,  (i)  The  dithyramb  he  removed  from  the  narrow 
sphere  of  Bacchus-worship  and  adapted  it  to  the  service  of  any  god. 
(2)  With  him  the  threnos  was  elevated  from  a  simple  monody  to  a 
great  choral.  (3)  It  was  Simonides  who  introduced  the  myth  into  the 
epinician  and  gave  it  the  form  which  Pindar  perfected.  (4)  And  the 
epigram  as  a  recognized  division  of  poetry  is  his  own  creation. 


SIMONIDES   OF  CEOS 


13467 


The  best  editions  of  the  fragments  are  —  Bergk,  *  Poetae  Lyrici 
Graeci,^  4th  ed.,  Vol.  iii.  ;  Schneidewin,  <  Simonidis  Cei  Carminum  Reli- 
quiae*; Hartung,  <  Poetae  Lyrici  Graeci,*  with  a  German  translation,  Vol. 
vi.  A  few  translations  are  given  in  Appleton,  <  Greek  Poetry  in  Eng- 
lish Verse,*  and  Tomlinson,  <  Selections  from  the  Greek  Anthology.* 


Pkl^  ^ 


DANAE'S   LAMENT 


AND  while  she  lay  within  the  carven  chest. 
Rocked  by  the  soughing  winds  and.  troubled  waves. 
Fear  crept  into  her  not  untearstained  cheeks, 
And  clasping  Perseus  closelier  round  she  spake:  — 

<*  O  child,  what  woes  are  mine !      Yet  thou  sleep'st  sound. 
In  infant  heedlessness  thou  slumberest 

Within  the  bronze-nailed  chest, 
While  lampless  -night  and  darkness  swathe  thee  round. 
Nor  though  the  washing  brine  bedew  thy  hair, 

Takest  thou  care. 
Nor  though  the  wind  lift  up  its  voice  aloud, — 
Face  to  my  face,  wrapped  in  thy  purple  shroud. 
Not  fearful  unto  thee  the  name  of  Fear! 
Else  wouldst  thou  to  my  words  lend  readier  ear. 

<<  Yet  sleep,  my  babe,  I  bid  thee  sleep,  my  child, 

And  sleep,  ye  waters  wild; 

Sleep,  mine  insatiate  woe ! 
And  grant,  O  father  Zeus,  some  respite  come 
Out  of  thy  mercy.     Nay,  too  bold  I  know 
This  boon  I  ask,  past  justice  to  bestow: 
I  pray  thee,  pardon  me,  my  lips  are  dumb." 

Translated  for  <A  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature*  by  Alphonse 

G.  Newcomer 


13468  SIMONIDES  OF   CEOS 


[The  following  versions  are  all  taken  from  a  careful  study  of  Simonides  by 
John  Sterling.  The  essay  appeared  in  the  Westminster  Review  for 
1838.] 

FROM    THE   <EPINICIAN    ODE   FOR   SCOPAS> 


A 


MAN  can  hardly  good  in  truth  become, 

With   hands,  feet,  mind,  all   square,  without  a  flaw. 


Nor  suits  my  thought  the  word  of  Pittacus, 
Though  he  was  sage,  that  to  be  virtuous 
Is  hard.     This  fits  a  god  alone. 

A  man  must  needs  to  evil  fall, 
When  by  hopeless  chance  o'erthrown. 

Whoso  does  well,  him  good  we  call, 
And  bad  if  bad  his  lot  be  known ; 
Those  by  the  gods  beloved  are  best  of  all. 
Enough  for  me  in  sooth 
Is  one  not  wholly  wrong. 
Nor  all  perverse,  but  skilled  in  useful  truth,— 
A  healthy  soul  and  strong: 
He  has  no  blame  from  me, 
Who  love  not  blame; 
For  countless  those  who  foolish  be. 
And  fair  are  all  things  free  from  shame. 
That  therefore  which  can  ne'er  be  found 
I  seek  not,  nor  desire  with  empty  thought, — 

A  man  all  blameless,  on  this  wide-spread  ground, 
'Mid  all  who  cull  its  fruitage  vainly  sought. 
If  found,  ye  too  this  prize  of  mine 
Shall  know:  meanwhile  all  those  I  love 
And  praise,  who  do  no  wrong  by  will  malign; 
For  to  necessity  must  yield  the  gods  above. 


INSCRIPTION    FOR   AN   ALTAR   DEDICATED   TO   ARTEMIS 

THE  sons  of  Athens  here  at  sea  subdued 
In  fight  all  Asia's  many-voiced  brood; 
And  when  the  Medes  had  fallen,  they  built  up  this — 
Their  trophy  due  to  maiden  Artemis. 


SIMONIDES   OF   CEOS 

EPITAPH    FOR   THOSE   WHO    FELL  AT   THERMOPYL^ 

OF  THOSE  who  at  Thermopylae  were  slain, 
Glorious  the  doom,  and  beautiful  the  lot: 
Their  tomb  an  altar;  men  from  tears  refrain 
To  honor  them,  and  praise,  but  mourn  them  not. 
Such  sepulchre,  nor  drear  decay 
Nor  all-destroying  time  shall  waste;  this  right  have  they. 
Within  their  grave  the  home-bred  glory 

Of  Greece  was  laid ;  this  witness  gives 
Leonidas  the  Spartan,  in  whose  story 
A  wreath  of  famous  virtue  ever  lives. 


FRAGMENT   OF  A   SCOLION 

LIKE  a  reinless  courser's  bound 
^       Or  an  Amyclean  hound, 

Chase  thou  with  wheeling  footstep 
the  song's  meandering  sound. 


13469 


T 


TIME    IS    FLEETING 

o  ONE  dread  gulf  all  things  in  common  tend; 
There  loftiest  virtues,  amplest  riches,  end. 


Long  are  we  dying;  reckoned  up  from  birth. 
Few  years,  and  evil  those,  are  ours  on  earth. 

Of  men  the  strength  is  small,  the  hopes  are  vain, 
And  pain  in  life's  brief  space  is  heaped  on  pain; 
And  death  inevitable  hangs  in  air. 
Of  which  alike  the  good  and  evil  share. 

'Mid  mortal  beings  naught  for  ever  stays: 
And  thus  with  beauteous  love  the  Chian  says, 
<<  The  race  of  man  departs  like  forest  leaves;* 
Though  seldom  he  who  hears  the  truth  receives. 

For  hope,  not  far  from  each,  in  every  heart  — 
Of  men  full-grown,  or  those  imripe  —  will  start: 
And  still  while  blooms  the  lovely  flower  of  youth. 
The  empty  mind  delights  to  dream  untruth ; 
Expects  nor  age  nor  death,  and  bold  and  strong 
Thinks  not  that  sickness  e'er  can  work  it  wrong. 


I3470 


SIMONIDES  OP  CEOS 

Ah  fools!  deluded  thus,  untaught  to  scan 
How  swiftly  pass  the  life  and  youth  of  man: 
This  knowing,  thou,  while  still  thou  hast  the  power 
Indulge  thy  soul,  and  taste  the  blissful  hour. 


VIRTUE  COY  AND   HARD   TO  WIN 

AND  'tis  said 
^     That  Virtue,  dwelling  high  on  pathless  rocks, 
A  holy  goddess,  loves  the  holy  place; 
And  never  there  is  seen  by  eyes  of  those 
Whom  painful  labor  has  not  tried  within, 
And  borne  them  up  to  manhood's  citadel. 


A 


EPITAPHS 

POOR  man,  not  a  Croesus,  here  lies  dead. 
And  small  the  sepulchre  befitting  me: 
Gorgippus  I,  who  knew  no  marriage-bed 
Before  I  wedded  pale  Persephone. 


ThoL)  liest,  O  Clisthenes,  in  foreign  earth. 

Whom  wandering  o'er  the  Euxine  destiny  found: 

Thou  couldst  not  reach  thy  happy  place  of  birth, 
Nor  seest  the  waves  that  gird  thy  Chios  round. 

Young  Gorgo  dying  to  her  mother  said. 
While  clinging  on  her  bosom  wept  the  maid, 
*  Beside  my  father  stay  thou  here,  and  bear 
A  happier  daughter  for  thine  age  to  care,*^ 

Ah!  sore  disease,  to  men  why  enviest  thou 

Their  prime  of  years  before  they  join  the  dead  ?- 

His  life  from  fair  Timarchus  snatching  now. 
Before  the  youth  his  maiden  bride  could  wed. 


I347I 


JEAN   CHARLES   SIMONDE   DE   SISMONDI 

(1 773-1 842) 
BY  HUMPHREY  J.  DESMOND 

iHEN  the  Edict  of  Nantes  was  revoked,  the  Simonde  family, 
who  were  of  the  Huguenot  faith,  migrated  from  Dauphine 
in  France  to  Geneva,  where  they  became  citizens  of  the 
higher  class.  Here  Jean  Charles  Leonard  Simonde  was  born,  May 
9th,  1773.  Noticing  at  the  beginning  of  his  literary  career  the  simi- 
larity of  his  family  arms  with  those  of  the  noble  Tuscan  house  of 
Sismondi,  he  adopted  the  name  of  Sismondi, 
—  reverting,  as  he  believed,  to  the  original 
family  name.  Sismondi's  intellectual  tastes 
came  from  his  mother,  a  woman  of  superior 
mind  and  energy.  Though  the  family  were 
in  good  circumstances,  his  father  served . 
for  a  time  as  the  village  pastor  of  Bossex. 
The  family  mansion  was  at  Chatelaine  near 
Geneva;  and  here  and  in  the  schools  of  the 
republican  city  the  future  historian  received 
his  education. 

The  period  of  his  young  manhood  fell 
in  troublous  times.  His  father,  trusting 
in  the  financial  skill  of  Necker,  had  lost  all 
his    investments    with    the    collapse    of   the 

Swiss  banker.  Young  Sismondi  cheerfully  accepted  the  irksome  du- 
ties of  clerk  in  a  Lyons  counting-house.  Then  the  French  Revolution 
drove  him  back  to  Geneva;  and  revolutionary  ideas  invading  Switzer- 
land, the  family  fled  to  England  in  1793.  But  Sismondi's  mother 
pined  for  the  home  and  the  society  of  happier  days;  and  in  the  face 
of  revolutionary  dangers  they  returned  to  Geneva.  Here  a  tragedy 
at  Chatelaine,  the  family  mansion, —  the  killing  by  Jacobin  soldiers  of 
a  friend  to  whom  they  had  given  shelter,  —  led  them  to  seek  securer 
refuge  in  Italy;  and  they  sold  Chatelaine  and  settled  down  on  a 
small  estate  at  Pescia,  near  Lucca.  For  two  years  Sismondi  lived, 
labored,  and  studied  on  his  pleasant  Italian  farm.  Though  a  man  of 
moderate  views  and  a  lover  of  liberty,  he  could  not  escape  the  tur- 
moil of  the  times.    On  four  occasions  he  was  imprisoned  as  a  suspect: 


Sismondi 


13472  JEAN  CHARLES  DE   SISMONDI 

now  by  the  French,  who  thought  him  an  aristocrat,  and  now  by  the  Ital- 
ians, who  thought  him  a  Frenchman.  In  1800  he  returned  to  Geneva, 
which  thereafter  was  his  permanent  honne.  Here  he  became  the  inti- 
mate friend  of  Madame  de  Stael,  by  whom  he  was  greatly  influenced; 
and  he  found  himself  at  home  in  the  circle  of  distinguished  people 
surrounding  this  brilliant  woman.  With  her  he  visited  Italy  in  1805, 
on  the  famous  journey  out  of  which  she  gave  the  world  <Corinne.> 
At  Geneva  he  became  Secretary  of  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  for 
the  department  of  Leman;  and  always  taking  a  keen  interest  in  the 
political  affairs  of  his  native  city,  he  served  for  many  years  in  its 
Legislative  Council.  One  of  the  episodes  of  his  life  was  an  interview 
with  Napoleon  after  the  latter's  return  from  Elba  in  181 5.  Sismondi 
espoused  the  cause  of  the  Emperor,  and  published  a  series  of  arti- 
cles in  the   Moniteur  in   support  of  the  counter-revolution. 

After  Waterloo  he  visited  his  mother  on  the  Tuscan  farm  which 
she  had  continued  to  occupy.  Here  he  met  Miss  Allen,  an  English 
lady,  sister-in-law  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh.  Subsequently,  in  April 
1819,  he  married  her;  and  this  union,  though  made  late  in  life  (he 
was  then  forty-six),  and  not  blessed  with  children,  appears  to  have 
been  a  happy  one.  He  made  his  home  at  Chenes,  a  country-house 
near  Geneva.  His  mother,  who  had  exercised  a  great  influence  over 
him  through  all  his  manhood  years,  died  in  1821.  He  found  solace 
now  in  the  assiduous  historical  labors  he  had  undertaken,  and  which 
absorbed  him  almost  up  to  the  day  of  his  death,  June  25th,  1842. 

The  collected  writings  of  Sismondi  comprise  sixty  volumes,  and 
touch  upon  a  wide  variety  of  subjects.  His  earliest  work,  on  the 
^Agriculture  of  Tuscany^  (Geneva,  1801),  was  the  result  of  his  experi- 
ences on  his  Pescia  farm. 

During  his  sojourn  in  England  he  acquired  the  English  language; 
and  the  influence  of  his  acquaintance  with  the  writings  of  Adam 
Smith  is  apparent  in  a  work  on  <  Commercial  Wealth  >  which  he  pub- 
lished at  Geneva  in  1803.  Later  on  he  completely  changed  his  eco- 
nomic opinions,  as  was  evident  in  an  article  on  ^  Political  Economy ' 
which  he  contributed  in  1817  to  the  Edinburgh  Encyclopaedia.  Subse- 
quently, in  1819,  his  <New  Views  of  Political  Economy  >  was  published 
in  three  volumes;  and  in  1836  he  published  his  < Studies  in  Social 
Science,^  two  volumes  of  which  are  entirely  devoted  to  political  econ- 
omy. 

It  is  however  as  a  historian  that  Sismondi  made  his  first  and  last- 
ing impression  in  literature.  His  ^History  of  the  Italian  Republics,^ 
in  sixteen  volumes,  appeared  between  the  years  1803  and  18 19;  and 
that  work  being  finished,  he  then  turned  to  his  still  bulkier  task,  the 
*  History  of  the  French,*  which  occupied  his  time  from  18 18  to  the 
year   of   his  death  in   1842,  and  of  which   twenty-nine   volumes   were 


JEAN    CHARLES    DE    SISMONDI  13473 

published.  The  amount  of  labor  which  he  gave  to  these  works  was 
prodigious.  Speaking  of  his  <  History  of  the  Italian  Republics,'  he 
says :  ^<  It  was  a  work  which  continued  for  at  least  eight  hours  a  day 
during  twenty  years.  I  was  obliged  constantly  to  read  and  converse 
in  Italian  and  Latin,  and  occasionally  in  French,  German,  Portuguese, 
and  Provengal.*'  It  required  untiring  research.  «I  have  nine  times, >> 
he  says,  <<  traversed  Italy  in  different  directions,  and  have  visited 
nearly  all  places  which  were  the  theatres  of  any  great  event.  I  have 
labored  in  almost  all  the  great  libraries,  I  have  searched  the  archives 
in  many  cities  and  many  monasteries.*'  Dealing  as  he  did  with  an 
infinity  of  details,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  as  he  went  more 
and  more  into  the  Middle  Age  chronicles  of  petty  Italian  wars  and 
conspiracies,  his  ardor  cooled.  The  work  was  not,  in  its  reception, 
a  flattering  success.  However,  the  author  was  encouraged  to  per- 
severe. His  <  History  of  the  French  >  extends  frotn  the  reign  of  Clovis 
io  the  accession  of  Louis  XVI.,  covering  a  period  of  nearly  thirteen 
centuries. 

As  a  historian,  Sismondi,  though  laborious  and  painstaking,  suf- 
fers by  comparison  with  the  better  work  done  by  later  writers,  who 
have  covered  the  same  ground  with  a  better  perspective  and  a  truer 
historical  grasp,  with  more  literary  genius,  and  with  the  advantage 
of  access  to  archives  and  original  doctiments  denied  the  Genevan. 
<*  More  recent  investigations,**  says  President  Adams  in  his  'Manual 
of  Historical  Literature,*  "have  thrown  new  light  on  Italian  affairs 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  consequently  Sismondi's  work  cannot  be 
regarded  as  possessing  all  its  former  value.**  His  <  History  of  the 
French  *  was  soon  entirely  superseded  by  the  greater  work  of  Henri 
Martin.  Sainte-Beuve,  in  one  of  his  'Lundis*  devoted  to  Sismondi, 
rather  sarcastically  refers  to  him  as  "the   RoUin  of  French  history.** 

The  general  spirit  of  his  historical  writings  is  made  apparent  in 
the  following  extract  from  the  close  of  his  *■  History  of  the   French  * : 

"I  am  a  republican;  but  while  preserving  that  ardent  love  of 
liberty  transmitted  to  me  by  my  ancestors,  whose  fate  was  united 
with  that  of  two  republics,  and  a  hatred  of  every  kind  of  tyranny,  I 
hope  I  have  never  shown  a  want  of  respect  for  those  time-honored 
and  lofty  recollections  which  tend  to  foster  virtue  in  noble  blood,  or 
for  that  sublime  devotion  in  the  chiefs  of  nations  which  has  often 
reflected  lustre  on  the  annals  of  a  whole  people.** 

He  seems,  however,  in  later  years,  to  have  become  somewhat  re- 
actionary in  his  views;  and  this  brought  him  into  impleasant  rela- 
tions with  his  neighbors.  When  France  demanded  the  expulsion  from 
Switzerland  of  Prince  Louis  Napoleon,  the  citizens  of  Geneva  were 
particularly  opposed  to  so  inhospitable  a  measure.  Sismondi  believed 
the  demand  should  be  granted.  Threats  were  made  against  his  life, 
and  his  native  city  became  for  him  a  dangerous  place  of  residence. 


;3474  JEAN   CHARLES  DE   SISMONDI 

Then,   the  overturning  of  the  ancient  constitution  of  Geneva  by  the 
democratic  revolution  of  November  1841,  was  a  bitter  grief  to  him. 

Outside  of  his  historical  work,  Sismondi  was  engaged  in  the  year 
18 10  to  furnish  the  publishers  of  the  <  Biografia  Universale  >  with  the 
lives  of  distinguished  Italians;  for  which,  we  are  informed,  he  was 
paid  six  francs  per  article.  At  the  conclusion  of  this  task  he  pre- 
pared a  course  of  lectures  on  the  <  Literature  of  the  South  of  Europe,  > 
which  he  delivered  at  Geneva  in  181 1.  This  in  the  year  1814  was 
the  basis  of  a  work  in  four  volumes, —  written,  as  Hallam  tells  us, 
<*in  that  flowing  and  graceful  style  which  distinguishes  the  author; 
and  succeeding  in  all  that  it  seeks  to  give, — a  pleasing  and  popular, 
yet  not  superficial  or  unsatisfactory,  account  of  the  best  authors  in 
the  Southern  languages.'*  In  1822  he  published  a  historical  novel  in 
three  voltimes,  called  <  Julia  Severa,*  purporting  to  show  the  condi- 
tion of  France  under  Clovis;  and  in  1832  he  condensed  his  ^History 
of  the  Italian  Republics '  into  one  volume.  M.  Mignet,  in  his  eulogy 
read  in  1845  before  the  Royal  Academy  of  Sciences,  says  of  Sismondi: 
<*  For  half  a  century  he  has  thought  nothing  that  is  not  honorable, 
written  nothing  that  is  not  moral,  wished  nothing  that  is  not  useful. 
Thus  has  he  left  a  glorious  memory,  which  will  be  forever  respected.'^ 


</f~~S./0^- 


BOCCACCIO'S    <  DECAMERON  > 
From  <  Literature  of  the  South  of  Europe  * 

ONE  cannot  but  pause  in  astonishment  at  the  choice  of  so 
gloomy  an  introduction  to  effusions  of  so  gay  a  nature. 
We  are  amazed  at  such  an  intoxicated  enjoyment  of  life 
under  the  threatened  approach  of  death;  at  such  irrepressible  de- 
sire in  the  bosom  of  man  to  divert  the  mind  from  sorrow;  at 
the  torrent  of  mirth  which  inundates  the  heart,  in  the  midst  of 
horrors  which  should  seem  to  wither  it  up.  As  long  as  we  feel 
delight  in  nourishing  feelings  that  are  in  unison  with  a  melan- 
choly temperament,  we  have  not  yet  felt  the  overwhelming  weight 
of  real  sorrow.  When  experience  has  at  length  taught  us  the 
substantial  griefs  of  life,  we  then  first  learn  the  necessity  of 
resisting  them;  and  calling  the  imagination  to  our  aid  to  turn 
aside  the  shafts  of  calamity,  we  struggle  with  our  sorrow,  and 
treat  it  as  an  invalid  from  whom  we  withdraw  every  object  which 
may  remind  him  of  the  cause  of  his  malady.  With  regard  to  the 
stories  themselves,  it  would  be  difficult  to  convey  an  idea  of  them 


JEAN  CHARLES  DE  SISMONDI  13475 

by  extracts,  and  impossible  to  preserve  in  a  translation  the  mer- 
its of  their  style.  The  praise  of  Boccaccio  consists  in  the  perfect 
purity  of  his  language,  in  his  eloquence,  his  grace, — and  above 
all,  in  that  na'ivete  which  is  the  chief  merit  of  narration,  and  the 
peculiar  charm  of  the  Italian  tongue.  Unfortunately,  Boccaccio 
did  not  prescribe  to  himself  the  same  purity  in  his  images  as  in 
his  phraseology.  The  character  of  his  work  is  light  and  sport- 
ive. He  has  inserted  in  it  a  great  number  of  tales  of  gallantry; 
he  has  exhausted  his  powers  of  ridicule  on  the  duped  husband, 
on  the  depraved  and  depraving  monks,  and  on  subjects  in  morals 
and  religious  worship  which  he  himself  regarded  as  sacred;  and 
his  reputation  is  thus  little  in  harmony  with  the  real  tenor  of  his 
conduct. 


THE   TROUBADOUR 
From  <  Literature  of  the  South  of  Europe » 

ON  THE  most  solemn  occasions,  in  the  disputes  for  glory,  in 
the  games  called  Tensons,  when  the  Troubadours  combated 
in  verse  before  illustrious  princes,  or  before  the  Courts  of 
Love,  they  were  called  upon  to  discuss  questions  of  the  most 
scrupulous  delicacy  and  the  most  disinterested  gallantry.  We 
find  them  inquiring,  successively,  by  what  qualities  a  lover  may 
render  himself  most  worthy  of  his  mistress;  how  a  knight  may 
excel  all  his  rivals;  and  whether  it  be  a  greater  grief  to  lose  a 
lover  by  death  or  by  infidelity.  It  is  in  these  Tensons  that 
bravery  becomes  disinterested,  and  that  love  is  exhibited  pure, 
delicate,  and  tender;  that  homage  to  woman  becomes  a  species 
of  worship,  and  that  a  respect  for  truth  is  an  article  in  the  creed 
of  honor.  These  elevated  maxims  and  these  delicate  sentiments 
were  mingled,  it  is  true,  with  a  great  spirit  of  refining.  If  an 
example  was  wanted,  the  most  extravagant  comparisons  were 
employed.  Antitheses,  and  plays  upon  words,  supplied  the  place 
of  proofs.  Not  imfrequently, —  as  must  be  the  case  with  those 
who  aim  at  constructing  a  system  of  morals  by  the  aid  of  talent 
alone,  and  who  do  not  foimd  it  on  experience, —  the  most  perni- 
cious sentiments,  and  principles  entirely  incompatible  with  the 
good  order  of  society  and  the  observation  of  other  duties,  were 
ranked  amongst  the  laws  of  gallantry.  It  is,  however,  very  credit- 
able to  the  Provencal  poetry,  that  it  displays  a  veneration  for  the 


j,,»6  JEAN   CHARLES  DE   SISMONDI 

beauties  of  chivalry;  and  that  it  has  preserved,  amidst  all  the 
vices  of  the  age,  a  respect  for  honor  and  a  love  of  high  feeling. 

This  delicacy  of  sentiment  among  the  Troubadours,  and  this 
mysticism  of  love,  have  a  more  intimate  connection  with  the 
poetry  of  the  Arabians  and  the  manners  of  the  East  than  we 
should  suspect  when  we  remember  the  ferocious  jealousy  of 
the  Mussulmans,  and  the  cruel  consequences  of  their  system  of 
polygamy.  Amongst  the  Mussulmans,  woman  is  a  divinity  as 
well  as  a  slave,  and  the  seraglio  is  at  the  same  time  a  temple 
and  a  prison.  The  passion  of  love  displays  itself  amongst  the 
people  of  the  South  with  a  more  lively  ardor  and  a  greater  im- 
petuosity than  in  the  nations  of  Europe.  The  Mussulman  does 
not  suffer  any  of  the  cares  or  the  pains  or  the  sufferings  of  life 
to  approach  his  wife.  He  bears  these  alone  His  harem  is  con- 
secrated to  luxury,  to  art,  and  to  pleasure.  Flowers  and  incense, 
music  and  dancing,  perpetually  surround  his  idol,  who  is  debarred 
from  every  laborious  employment.  The  songs  in  which  he  cele- 
brates his  love  breathe  the  same  spirit  of  adoration  and  of  wor- 
ship which  we  find  in  the  poets  of  chivalry ;  and  the  most  beautiful 
of  the  Persian  ghazeles,  and  the  Arabian  cassides,  seem  to  be 
translations  of  the  verses  or  songs  of  the   Proven9als. 

We  must  not  judge  of  the  manners  of  the  Mussulmans  by 
those  of  the  Turks  of  our  day.  Of  all  the  people  who  have  fol- 
lowed the  law  of  the  Koran,  the  latter  are  the  most  gloomy 
and  jealous.  The  Arabians,  while  they  passionately  loved  their 
mistresses,  suffered  them  to  enjoy  more  liberty;  and  of  all  the 
countries  under  the  Arabian  yoke,  Spain  was  that  in  which  their 
manners  partook  most  largely  of  the  gallantry  and  chivalry  of  the 
Europeans.  It  was  this  country  also  which  produced  the  most 
powerful  effects  on  the  cultivation  of  the  intellect,  in  the  south 
of  Christian  Europe. 


ITALY   IN   THE   THIRTEENTH   CENTURY 
From  <A  History  of  the  Italian  Republics* 

WHILE  the  power  of  the  kings  of  Naples,  of  the  emperors,  and 
of   the    popes,  was   as  it   were    suspended    in    Italy,  innu- 
merable  small   States,  which  had  risen  to  almost  absolute 
independence,  experienced  frequent  revolutions,  for  the  most  part 


JEAN   CHARLES  DE  SISMONDI  13477 

proceeding  from  internal  and  independent  causes.  We  can  at 
most  only  indicate  shortly  those  of  the  republics  which  were  the 
most  distinguished  and  the  most  influential  in  Italy;  but  before 
thus  entering  within  the  walls  of  the  principal  cities,  it  is  right 
to  give  a  sketch  of  the  general  aspect  of  the  country, —  particu- 
larly as  the  violent  commotions  which  it  experienced  might  give  a 
false  idea  of  its  real  state.  This  aspect  was  one  of  a  prodigious 
prosperity,  which  contrasted  so  much  the  more  with  the  rest 
of  Europe,  that  nothing  but  poverty  and  barbarism  were  to  be 
found  elsewhere.  The  open  country  (designated  by  the  name  of 
contadd)  appertaining  to  each  city  was  cultivated  by  an  active 
and  industrious  race  of  peasants,  enriched  by  their  labor,  and  not 
fearing  to  display  their  wealth  in  their  dress,  their  cattle,  and 
their  instruments  of  husbandry.  The  proprietors,  inhabitants 
of  towns,  advanced  them  capital,  shared  the  harvests,  and  alone 
paid  the  land-tax;  they  undertook  the  immense  labor  which  has 
given  so  much  fertility  to  the  Italian  soil, —  that  of  making  dikes 
to  preserve  the  plains  from  the  inundation  of  the  rivers,  and  of 
deriving  from  those  rivers  innumerable  canals  of  irrigation.  The 
naviglio  grande  of  Milan,  which  spreads  the  clear  waters  of  the 
Ticino  over  the  finest  part  of  Lombardy,  was  begun  in  1179, 
resumed  in  1257,  and  terminated  a  few  years  afterwards.  Men 
who  meditated,  and  who  applied  to  the  arts  the  fruits  of  their 
study,  practiced  already  that  scientific  agriculture  of  Lombardy 
and  Tuscany  which  became  a  model  to  other  nations;  and  at  this 
day,  after  five  centuries,  the  districts  formerly  free,  and  always 
cultivated  with  intelligence,  are  easily  distinguished  from  those 
half-wild  districts  which  had  remained  subject  to  the  feudal 
lords. 

The  cities,  surrounded  with  thick  walls,  terraced,  and  guarded 
by  towers,  were  for  the  most  part  paved  with  broad  flagstones; 
while  the  inhabitants  of  Paris  could  not  stir  out  of  their  houses 
without  plunging  into  the  mud.  Stone  bridges  of  an  elegant  and 
bold  architecture  were  thrown  over  rivers;  aqueducts  carried  pure 
water  to  the  fountains.  The  palace  of  the  podestas  and  signorie 
Linited  strength  with  majesty.  The  most  admirable  of  those  of 
Florence,  the  Palazzo-Vecchio,  was  built  in  1298.  The  Loggia 
in  the  same  city,  the  church  of  Santa  Croce,  and  that  of  Santa 
Mariadel  Fiore  with  its  dome  so  admired  by  Michael  Angelo, 
were  begun  by  the  architect  Arnolfo,  scholar  of  Nicolas  di  Pisa, 
between  the  years  1284  and  1300.    The  prodigies  of  this  first-born 


j,.»3  JEAN   CHARLES   DE   SISMONDI 

of  the  fine  arts  multiplied  in  Italy:  a  pure  taste,  boldness,  and 
grandeur  struck  the  eye  in  all  the  public  monuments,  and  finally 
reached  even  private  dwellings;  while  the  princes  of  France, 
England,  and  Germany,  in  building  their  castles,  seemed  to  think 
only  of  shelter  and  defense.  Sculpture  in  marble  and  bronze 
soon  followed  the  progress  of  architecture:  in  1300,  Andrea  di 
Pisa,  son  of  the  architect  Nicolas,  cast  the  admirable  bronze  gates 
of  the  Baptistery  at  Florence;  about  the  same  time,  Cimabue 
and  Giotto  revived  the  art  of  painting,  Casella  that  of  music,  and 
Dante  gave  to  Italy  his  divine  poem  unequaled  in  succeeding 
generations.  History  was  written  honestly,  with  scrupulous  re- 
search and  with  a  graceful  simplicity,  by  Giovanni  Villani  and 
his  school ;  the  study  of  morals  and  philosophy  began ;  and  Italy, 
ennobled  by  freedom,  enlightened  nations  till  then  sunk  in  dark- 
ness. 

The  arts  of  necessity  and  of  luxury  had  been  cultivated  with 
not  less  success  than  the  fine  arts:  in  every  street,  warehouses 
and  shops  displayed  the  wealth  that  Italy  and  Flanders  only  knew 
how  to  produce.  It  excited  the  astonishment  and  cupidity  of  the 
French  or  German  adventurer  who  came  to  find  employment  in 
Italy,  and  who  had  no  other  exchange  to  make  than  his  blood 
against  the  rich  stuffs  and  brilliant  arms  which  he  coveted.  The 
Tuscan  and  Lombard  merchants,  however,  trafficked  in  the  bar- 
barous regions  of  the  west,  to  carry  there  the  produce  of  their 
industry.  Attracted  by  the  franchises  of  the  fairs  of  Champagne 
and  of  Lyons,  they  went  thither  as  well  to  barter  their  goods 
as  to  lend  their  capital  at  interest  to  the  nobles,  habitually  loaded 
with  debt;  though  at  the  risk  of  finding  themselves  suddenly 
arrested,  their  wealth  confiscated  by  order  of  the  King  of  France, 
and  their  lives  too  sometimes  endangered  by  sanctioned  robbers, 
under  the  pretext  of  repressing  usury.  Industry,  the  employment 
of  a  superabundant  capital,  the  application  of  mechanism  and  sci- 
ence to  the  production  of  wealth,  secured  the  Italians  a  sort  of 
monopoly  through  Europe;  they  alone  offered  for  sale  what  all 
the  rich  desired  to  buy:  and  notwithstanding  the  various  oppres- 
sions of  the  barbarian  kings,  notwithstanding  the  losses  occasioned 
by  their  own  oft-repeated  revolutions,  their  wealth  was  rapidly 
renewed.  The  wages  of  workmen,  the  interest  of  capital,  and  the 
profit  of  trade  rose  simultaneously,  while  every  one  gained  much 
and  spent  little;  manners  were  still  simple,  luxury  was  unknown, 
and  the  future  was  not  forestalled  by  accumulated  debt. 


JEAN   CHARLES   DE   SISMONDI  13479 

A  FIFTEENTH-CENTURY   SOLDIER:    FRANCESCO   CARMAGNOLA 
From  <A  History  of  the  Italian  Republics  > 

AN  ILLUSTRIOUS  fugitivc,  Franccsco  Carmagnola,  who  arrived 
about  this  time  [1425-26]  at  Venice,  accomplished  what 
Florence  had  nearly  failed  in,  by  discovering  to  the  Vene- 
tians the  project  of  the  Duke  of  Milan  to  subjugate  them.  Fran- 
cesco Carmagnola  had,  by  the  victories  he  had  gained,  the  glory 
he  had  acquired,  and  the  influence  he  obtained  over  the  soldiers, 
excited  the  jealousy,  instead  of  the  gratitude,  of  Filippo  Maria; 
who  disgraced  him  and  deprived  him  of  his  employment,  without 
assigning  any  reason.  Carmagnola  returned  to  court,  but  could 
not  even  obtain  an  interview  with  his  master.  He  retired  to  his 
native  country.  Piedmont;  his  wife  and  children  were  arrested, 
and  his  goods  confiscated.  He  arrived  at  last,  by  way  of  Ger- 
many, at  Venice;  soon  afterward  some  emissaries  of  the  Duke 
of  Milan  were  arrested  for  an  attempt  to  poison  him.  The  doge, 
Francesco  Foscari,  wishing  to  give  lustre  to  his  reign  by  con- 
quest, persuaded  the  Senate  of  Venice  ,  to  oppose  the  increasing 
ambition  of  the  Duke  of  Milan.  A  league  formed  between  Flor- 
ence and  Venice  was  successively  joined  by  the  Marquis  of  Fer- 
rara,  the  lord  of  Mantua,  the  Siennese,  Duke  Amadeus  VHI.  of 
Savoy,  and  King  Alphonso  of  Naples,  who  jointly  declared 
war  against  Filippo  Maria  Visconti  on  the  27th  of  January,  1426. 
Carmagnola  was  charged  to  raise  an  army  of  16,000  cuirassiers 
and  8,000  infantry  in  the  States  of  Mantua. 

The  good  fortune  of  Carmagnola  in  war  still  attended  him  in 
the  campaign  of  1426.  He  was  as  successful  against  the  Duke  of 
Milan  as  he  had  been  for  him:  he  took  from  him  the  city  and 
the  whole  province  of  Brescia.  The  duke  ceded  this  conquest  to 
the  Venetians  by  treaty  on  the  30th  of  December;  but  he  em- 
ployed the  winter  in  assembling  his  forces,  and  in  the  beginning 
of  spring  renewed  the  war.  He  equipped  a  considerable  fleet  on 
the  Po,  in  order  to  take  possession  of  the  States  of  Mantua  and 
Ferrara,  the  allies  of  the  two  republics.  This  fleet  was  attacked 
by  the  Venetians,  and  after  an  obstinate  battle,  burnt  near  Cre- 
mona on  the  2ist  of  May,  1427.  The  Duke  of  Milan  had  given 
the  command  of  his  army  to  Nicolo  Piccinino,  the  pupil  of  Brac- 
cio,  who  had  brought  with  him  the  flower  of  the  Bracceschi 
army.  Nicolo  attacked  Carmagnola  on  the  12th  of  July,  at  Casal- 
secco;    but   the   heat   was  so    intense,   and   the    dust   rose   in   such 


13480  JEAN   CHARLES  DE   SISMONDI 

clouds  from  under  the  horses'  feet,  that  the  two  armies,  envel- 
oped in  nearly  the  darkness  of  night,  could  no  longer  distinguish 
each  other,  or  discern  the  signals:  they  separated  without  claim- 
ing advantage  on  either  side.  A  third  battle  took  place  on  the 
nth  of  October,  1427,  in  a  marsh  near  Macalo;  Carmagnola  here 
completely  defeated  the  Milanese  army,  commanded  by  Carlo 
Malatesta,  and  comprising  Francesco  Sforza,  Nicolo  Piccinino,  and 
all  the  most  illustrious  captains  of  Italy.  By  an  imprudent  gen- 
erosity, Carmagnola  released  these  important  prisoners;  and  thus 
provoked  the  resentment  of  the  procurators  of  St.  Mark,  who 
accompanied  him.  A  new  peace,  signed  on  the  i8th  of  April, 
1428,  again  suspended  hostilities  without  reconciling  the  parties, 
or  inspiring  the  belligerents  with  any  mutual  confidence.  The 
Florentines  took  advantage  of  this  interval  of  repose  to  attack 
Paulo  Guinigi,  lord  of  Lucca,  whose  alliance  with  the  Duke  of 
Milan  had  irritated  them,  although  he  had  afterwards  been  aban- 
doned by  Filippo  Maria.  The  Lucchese,  profiting  by  this  last 
circumstance,  revolted  against  their  lord  in  September,  deposed 
him,  and  sent  him  prisoner  to  Milan.  The  Florentines  were 
afterwards  driven  out  of  the  States  of  Lucca  by  Nicolo  Piccinino, 
who  defeated  them  on  the  borders  of  the  Serchio  on  the  2d  of 
December,  1430;    and  the  general  war  recommenced. 

In  this  last  campaign,  fortune  abandoned  Carmagnola.  On  the 
17th  of  May,  1 43 1,  he  suffered  himself  to  be  surprised  at  Soncino, 
which  he  had  reached  with  his  advanced  guard,  by  Francesco 
Sforza,  who  took  prisoners  1600  of  his  cavalry;  he,  however, 
escaped  and  rejoined  his  still  brilliant  army.  On  the  23d  of  May 
he  approached  the  Po,  to  second  the  Venetian  fleet  in  an  attack 
on  Cremona;  but  the  fleet,  pushed  by  that  of  the  Milanese  on 
the  opposite  shore,  was  destroyed  in  his  presence,  without  the 
possibility  of  his  rendering  it  any  aid.  However  great  his  desire 
to  repair  these  checks,  he  could  not  meet  the  enemy  again  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  the  summer.  A  deadly  distemper  broke  out 
among  the  horses  throughout  Italy;  his  troops  were  dismounted: 
and  as  the  fate  of  battle  depended  almost  entirely  on  the  cavalry, 
this  calamity  reduced  him  to  complete  inaction. 

The  Senate  of  Venice,  which  made  it  a  rule  never  to  defend 
the  republic  but  by  foreign  arms, —  never  to  enlist  its  citizens 
under  its  banners  either  as  generals  or  soldiers, —  further  observed 
that  of  governing  with  extreme  rigor  those  foreign  adventurers 
of  whom  its  armies  were  composed,  and  of  never  believing  in  the 


JEAN    CHARLES   DE   SISMONDI  I3481 

virtue  of  men  who  trafficked  in  their  own  blood.  The  Venetians 
distrusted  them ;  they  supposed  them  ever  disposed  to  treachery : 
and  if  they  were  unfortunate,  though  only  from  imprudence,  they 
rendered  them  responsible.  The  condottieri  were  made  fully 
to  understand  that  they  were  not  to  lose  the  armies  of  the  repub- 
lic without  answering  for  the  event  with  their  lives.  The  Senate 
joined  to  this  rigor  the  perfidy  and  mystery  which  characterize 
an  aristocracy.  Having  decided  on  punishing  Carmagnola  for  the 
isLte  disasters,  it  began  by  deceiving  him.  He  was  loaded  with 
marks  of  deference  and  confidence;  he  was  invited  to  come  to 
Venice  in  the  month  of  April,  1432,  to  fix  with  the  signoria  the 
plan  of  the  ensuing  campaign.  The  most  distinguished  senators 
went  to  meet  him,  and  conduct  him  in  pomp  to  the  palace  of 
the  doge.  Carmagnola,  introduced  into  the  Senate,  was  placed  in 
the  chair  of  honor;  he  was  pressed  to  speak;  his  discourse  was 
applauded.  The  day  began  to  close;  lights  were  not  yet  called 
for,  but  the  general  could  no  longer  distinguish  the  faces  of 
those  who  surrounded  him:  when  suddenly  the  sbirri^  or  soldiers 
of  police,  threw  themselves  on  him,  loaded  him  with  chains,  and 
dragged  him  to  the  prison  of  the  palace.  .  He  was  next  day 
put  to  the  torture, —  rendered  still  more  painful  by  the  wounds 
which  he  had  received  in  the  service  of  this  ungrateful  repub- 
lic. Both  the  accusations  made  against  him,  and  his  answers  to 
the  questions,  are  buried  in  the  profound  secrecy  with  which  the 
Venetian  Senate  covered  all  its  acts.  On  the  5th  of  May,  1432, 
Francesco  Carmagnola,  twenty  days  after  his  arrest,  was  led  out, 
—  his  mouth  gagged  to  prevent  any  protestation  of  innocence, — 
and  placed  between  the  two  columns  on  the  square  of  St.  Mark: 
he  was  there  beheaded,  amidst  a  trembling  people,  whom  the 
Senate  of  Venice  was  resolved  to  govern  only  by  terror. 


THE   RUIN   OF   FLORENCE  AND   ITS   REPUBLIC:  1530 

From  <A  History  of  the  Italian   Republics  > 

A  PERIOD  of  three  centuries  of  weakness,   humiliation,   and   suf- 
fering in   Italy  began  in  the  year  1530:    from  that  time  she 
was    always    oppressed    by    foreigners,    and    enervated    and 
corrupted    by  her   masters.     These    last  reproached  her  with   the 
vices  of  which   they  were  themselves  the  authors.     After  having 


J  248  2  JEAN   CHARLES   DE   SISMONDI 

reduced  her  to  the  impossibility  of  resisting,  they  accused  her  of 
cowardice  when  she  submitted,  and  of  rebellion  when  she  made 
efforts  to  vindicate  herself.  The  Italians,  during  this  long  period 
of  slavery,  were  agitated  with  the  desire  of  becoming  once  more 
a  nation:  as,  however,  they  had  lost  the  direction  of  their  own 
affairs,  they  ceased  to  have  any  history  which  could  be  called 
theirs;  their  misfortunes  have  become  but  episodes  in  the  histories 
of  other  nations  We  should  not,  however,  look  upon  the  task 
we  have  imposed  on  ourselves  as  concluded,  if  we  did  not  dis- 
tinguish amidst  this  general  subjugation,  the  particular  calamities 
which  closed  the  existence  of  the  republics  which  still  remained 
independent  after  the  coronation  of  Charles  V. 

The  Florentines,  who  from  151 2  had  been  victims  of  all  the 
faults  of  Leo  X.  and  Clement  VII., —  who  had  been  drawn  into 
all  the  oscillations  of  their  policy,  and  called  upon  to  make  pro- 
digious sacrifices  of  money  for  projects  with  which  they  had  not 
even  been  made  acquainted, — were  taught  under  these  popes  to 
detest  the  yoke  of  the  Medici.  When  the  Constable  of  Bour- 
bon approached  their  walls  in  his  march  to  Rome,  on  the  26th 
of  April,  1527,  they  were  on  the  point  of  recovering  their  lib- 
erty: the  Cardinal  de  Cortona,  who  commanded  for  the  Pope  at 
Florence,  had  distributed  arms  among  the  citizens  for  their 
defense,  and  they  determined  to  employ  them  for  their  libera- 
tion; but  the  terror  which  this  army  of  brigands  inspired  did  the 
cardinal  the  service  of  repressing  insurrection.  When,  however, 
they  heard  soon  after  of  the  taking  of  Rome,  and  of  the  cap- 
tivity of  the  Pope,  all  the  most  notable  citizens  presented  them- 
selves in  their  civic  dress  to  the  Cardinal  de  Cortona;  declared 
firmly,  but  with  calmness,  that  they  were  henceforth  free;  and 
compelled  him,  with  the  two  bastard  Medici  whom  he  brought 
up,  to  quit  the  city.  It  was  on  the  17th  of  May,  1527,  that 
the  lieutenant  of  Clement  obeyed;  and  the  constitution,  such  as 
it  existed  in  15 12,  with  its  grand  council,  was  restored  without 
change,  except  that  the  office  of  gonfalonier  was  declared  annual. 
The  first  person  invested  with  this  charge  was  Nicolo  Capponi,  a 
man  enthusiastic  in  religion  and  moderate  in  politics:  he  was  the 
son  of  Pietro  Capponi,  who  had  braved  Charles  VIII.  In  1529 
he  was  succeeded  by  Baldassare  Carducci,  whose  character  was 
more  energetic  and  opinions  more  democratic.  Carducci  was  suc- 
ceeded in  1530  by  Raffaele  Girolami,  who  witnessed  the  end  of  the 
republic. 


JEAN   CHARLES   DE   SISMONDI  134S3 

Florence,  during  the  whole  period  of  its  glory  and  power, 
had  neglected  the  arts  of  war:  it  reckoned  for  its  defense  on 
the  adventurers  whom  its  wealth  could  summon  from  all  parts 
to  its  service;  and  set  but  little  value  on  a  courage  which  men 
without  any  other  virtue  were  so  eager  to  sell  to  the  highest 
bidder.  Since  the  transalpine  nations  had  begun  to  subdue  Italy 
to  their  tyranny,  these  hireling  arms  suiificed  no  longer  for  the 
public  safety.  Statesmen  began  to  see  the  necessity  of  giving 
the  republic  a  protection  within  itself.  Machiavelli,  who  died 
on  the  2 2d  of  June,  1527,  six  weeks  after  the  restoration  of  the 
popular  government,  had  been  long  engaged  in  persuading  his 
fellow-citizens  of  the  necessity  of  awakening  a  military  spirit  in 
the  people:  it  was  he  who  caused  the  country  militia,  named 
rordinanza,  to  be  formed  into  regiments.  A  body  of  mercena- 
ries, organized  by  Giovanni  de'  Medici,  a  distant  kinsman  of  the 
Pope's,  served  at  the  time  as  a  military  school  for  the  Tuscans, 
among  whom  alone  the  corps  had  been  raised:  it  acqiiired  a 
high  reputation  under  the  name  of  bande  nere.  No  infantry 
equaled  it  in  courage  and  intelligence.  Five  thousand  of  these 
warriors  served  under  Lautrec  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  where 
they  almost  all  perished.  When,  towards  the  end  of  the  year 
1528,  the  Florentines  perceived  that  their  situation  became  more 
and  more  critical,  they  formed  among  those  who  enjoyed  the 
greatest  privileges  in  their  country  two  bodies  of  militia,  which 
displayed  the  utmost  valor  for  its  defense.  The  first,  consisting 
of  three  hundred  young  men  of  noble  families,  undertook  the 
guard  of  the  palace,  and  the  support  of  the  constitution;  the  sec- 
ond, of  four  thousand  soldiers  drawn  only  from  among  families 
having  a  right  to  sit  in  the  council-general,  were  called  the  civic 
militia:  both  soon  found  opportunities  of  proving  that  generosity 
and  patriotism  suffice  to  create,  in  a  very  short  period,  the  best 
soldiers.  The  illustrious  Michael  Angelo  was  charged  to  super- 
intend the  fortifications  of  Florence:  they  were  completed  in  the 
month  of  April  1529.  Lastly,  the  ten  commissioners  of  war 
chose  for  the  command  of  the  city  Malatesta  Baglioni  of  Perugia, 
who  was  recommended  to  them  as  much  for  his  hatred  of  the 
Medici,  who  had  unjustly  put  his  father  to  death,  as  for  his  repu- 
tation for  valor  and  military  talent. 

Clement  VII.  sent  against  Forence,  his  native  country,  that 
very  Prince  of  Orange,  the  successor  of  Bourbon,  who  had  made 
him  prisoner  at  Rome:    and   witli   him  that  very  army  of  robbers 


13484  JEAN   CHARLES   DE   SISMONDI 

which  had  overwhelmed  the  Holy  See  and  its  subjects  with  mis- 
ery and  every  outrage.  This  army  entered  Tuscany  in  the  month 
of  September  1529,  and  took  possession  of  Cortona,  Arezzo,  and 
all  the  upper  Val  d'Arno.  On  the  14th  of  October  the  Prince 
of  Orange  encamped  in  the  plain  of  Ripoli,  at  the  foot  of  fhe 
walls  of  Florence;  and  towards  the  end  of  December,  Ferdinand 
de  Gonzaga  led  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Arno  another  imperial 
army,  composed  of  20,000  Spaniards  and  Germans,  which  occu- 
pied without  resistance  Pistoia  and  Prato.  Notwithstanding  the 
immense  superiority  of  their  forces,  the  imperialists  did  not  at- 
tempt to  make  a  breach  in  the  walls  of  Florence:  they  resolved 
to  make  themselves  masters  of  the  city  by  blockade.  The  Flor- 
entines, on  the  contrary,  animated  by  preachers  who  inherited 
the  zeal  of  Savonarola,  and  who  united  liberty  with  religion  as 
an  object  of  their  worship,  were  eager  for  battle:  they  made  fre- 
quent attacks  on  the  whole  line  of  their  enemies,  led  in  turns 
by  Malatesta  Baglioni  and  Stefano  Colonna.  They  made  nightly 
sallies,  covered  with  white  shirts  to  distinguish  each  other  in  the 
dark,  and  successively  surprised  the  posts  of  the  imperialists;  but 
the  slight  advantages  thus  obtained  could  not  disguise  the  grow- 
ing danger  of  the  republic.  France  had  abandoned  them  to  their 
enemies;  there  remained  not  one  ally  either  in  Italy  or  the  rest 
of  Europe;  while  the  army  of  the  Pope  and  Emperor  compre- 
hended all  the  survivors  of  those  soldiers  who  had  so  long  been 
the  terror  of  Italy  by  their  courage  and  ferocity,  and  whose  war- 
like ardor  was  now  redoubled  by  the  hope  of  the  approaching 
pillage  of  the  richest  city  in  the  West. 

The  Florentines  had  one  solitary  chance  of  deliverance.  Fran- 
cesco Ferrucci,  one  of  their  citizens,  who  had  learned  the  art  of 
war  in  the  bande  ncre,  and  joined  to  a  mind  full  of  resources  an 
unconquerable  intrepidity  and  an  ardent  patriotism,  was  not  shut 
up  within  the  walls  of  Florence:  he  had  been  named  commissary 
general,  with  unlimited  power  over  all  that  remained  without  the 
capital.  Ferrucci  was  at  first  engaged  in  conveying  provisions 
from  Empoli  to  Florence;  he  afterwards  took  Volterra  from  the 
imperialists:  and  having  formed  a  small  army,  proposed  to  the 
signoria  to  seduce  all  the  adventurers  and  brigands  from  the  im- 
perial army,  by  promising  them  another  pillage  of  the  pontifical 
court;  and  succeeding  in  that,  to  march  at  their  head  on  Rome, 
frighten  Clement,  and  force  him  to  grant  peace  to  their  country. 
The    signoria   rejected    this    plan    as   too    daring.       Ferrucci    then 


JEAN  CHARLES  DE   SISMONDI  niStJ 

formed  a  second,  which  was  little  less  bold.  He  departed  from 
Volterra;  made  the  tour  of  Tuscany,  which  the  imperial  troops 
traversed  in  every  direction;  collected  at  Leghorn,  Pisa,  the  Val 
di  Nievole,  and  in  the  mountains  of  Pistoia,  every  soldier,  every 
man  of  courage,  still  devoted  to  the  republic;  and  after  hav- 
ing thus  increased  his  army,  he  intended  to  fall  on  the  imperial 
camp  before  Florence,  and  force  the  Prince  of  Orange,  who  began 
to  feel  the  want  of  money,  to  raise  the  siege.  Ferrucci,  with  an 
intrepidity  equal  to  his  skill,  led  his  little  troop  from  the  14th 
of  July  to  the  2d  of  August,  1530,  through  numerous  bodies  of 
imperialists,  who  preceded,  followed,  and  surrounded  him  on  all 
sides,  as  far  as  Gavinana,  four  miles  from  San  Marcello,  in  the 
mountains  of  Pistoia.  He  entered  that  village  about  midday 
on  the  2d  of  August,  with  3,000  infantry  and  500  cavalry.  The 
Prince  of  Orange  at  the  same  time  entered  by  another  gate,  with 
a  part  of  the  army  which  besieged  Florence.  The  different  corps 
which  had  on  every  side  harassed  Ferrucci  in  his  march  poured 
in  upon  him  from  all  quarters:  the  battle  instantly  began,  and 
was  fought  with  relentless  fury  within  the  walls  -of  Gavinana. 
Philibert  de  Challon,  Prince  of  Orange,  in  whom  that  house 
became  extinct,  was  killed  by  a  double  shot,  and  his  corps  put 
to  flight;  but  other  bands  of  imperialists  successively  arrived,  and 
continually  renewed  the  attack  on  a  small  force  exhausted  with 
fatigue:  2,000  Florentines  were  already  stretched  on  the  field  of 
battle,  when  Ferrucci,  pierced  with  several  mortal  wounds,  was 
borne  bleeding  to  the  presence  of  his  personal  enemy,  Fabrizio 
Maramaldi,  a  Calabrese,  who  commanded  the  light  cavalry  of  the 
Emperor.  The  Calabrese  stabbed  him  several  times  in  his  rage, 
while  Ferrucci  calmly  said,  **  Thou  wouldst  kill  a  dead  man!" 
The   republic   perished   with    him. 

When  news  of  the  disaster  at  Gavinana  reached  Florence,  the 
consternation  was  extreme.  Baglioni,  who  for  some  days  had 
been  in  treaty  with  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  who  was  accused 
of  having  given  him  notice  of  the  project  of  Ferrucci,  declared 
that  a  longer  resistance  was  impossible;  and  that  he  was  deter- 
mined to  save  an  imprudent  city,  which  seemed  bent  upon  its 
own  ruin.  On  the  8th  of  August  he  opened  the  bastion,  in 
which  he  was  stationed,  to  an  imperial  captain,  and  planted  his 
artillery  so  as  to  command  the  town.  The  citizens,  in  consterna- 
tion, abandoned  the  defense  of  the  walls,  to  employ  themselves 
in    concealing    their    valuable    effects    in    the    churches;     and    the 


13486  JEAN   CHARLES   DE   SISMONDI 

signoria  acquainted  Ferdinand  de  Gonzaga,  who  had  succeeded 
the  Prince  of  Orange  in  the  command  of  the  army,  that  they  were 
ready  to  capitulate.  The  terms  granted  (on  the  12th  of  August, 
1530)  were  less  rigorous  than  the  Florentines  might  have  appre- 
hended. They  were  to  pay  a  gratuity  of  80,000  florins  to  the 
army  which  besieged  them,  and  to  recall  the  Medici.  In  return, 
a  complete  amnesty  was  to  be  granted  to  all  who  had  acted 
against  that  family,  the  Pope,  or  the  Emperor.  But  Clement 
had  no  intention  of  observing  any  of  the  engagements  contracted 
in  his  name.  On  the  20th  of  August  he  caused  the  parliament, 
in  the  name  of  the  sovereign  people,  to  create  a  balia,  which 
was  to  execute  the  vengeance  of  which  he  would  not  himself 
take  the  responsibility:  he  subjected  to  the  torture,  and  after- 
wards punished  with  exile  or  death,  by  means  of  this  balia,  all 
the  patriots  who  had  signalized  themselves  by  their  zeal  for  lib- 
erty. In  the  first  month  one  hundred  and  fifty  illustrious  citizens 
were  banished;  before  the  end  of  the  year  there  were  more 
than  one  thousand  sufferers:  every  Florentine  family,  even  among 
those  most  devoted  to  the  Medici,  had  some  one  member  among 
the  proscribed. 


134^7 


ANNIE  TRUMBULL  SLOSSON 
(1838-) 

(NNiE  Trumbull  Slosson  —  who  was  born  in  Stonington,  Con- 
necticut, of  the  Trumbull  family  learned  in  politics,  war, 
science,  and  bibliography,  and  who  married  in  1867  Edward 
Slosson  of  New  York  —  made  friends  with  the  public  in  a  charming 
little  book  entitled  <  The  China-Hunter's  Club,>  published  in  New 
York  in    1878,   and   still   dear  to  the   pottery-loving  heart. 

In  1888  <  Fishin'  Jimmy'  appeared  in  the  New  Princeton  Review. 
He  was  at  once  recognized  in  this  country,  preached  about,  quoted, 
and  ^*  conveyed  *'  to  transatlantic  admirers,  who  held  him  up  as  a 
model,  perfect  in  his  way,  as  he  is.  Other  of  her  stories,  written  on 
the  same  lines,  have  been  published  in  that  and  other  magazines 
since,  not  very  numerously;  and  in  1891  seven  of  them  were  gathered 
into  a  volume  called  <  The  Seven  Dreamers.*  A  longer  one,  <Aunt 
Liefy,*  was  published  in  book  form. 

Mrs.  Slosson  was  fortunate  in  selecting  the  short  story  as  her 
mode  of  expression,  and  in  her  choice  of  subjects  and  place;  for 
she  is  the  apostle  —  the  defender,  rather  —  of  the  eccentric  mystic; 
and  were  her  characters  and  her  scenes  placed  in  any  other  part 
of  the  white  world  than  New  England,  it  is  doubtful  whether,  even 
with  her  skill  in  creating  illusion,  she  would  be  able  to  convince  the 
readers  that  these  strange  dreams  are  true. 

But  he  who  has  solved  the  mystery  of  its  stern  ice-bound  win- 
ters, its  sweet  chill  springs,  its  prodigal  summers:  and  has  learned  to 
know  its  rural  people,  whose  daily  food  is  work,  to  whom  responsi- 
bility comes  early  and  stays  late;  whose  manners  are  as  country 
manners  must  be,  and  whose  speech  is  plain ;  whose  conscience  is  a 
scourge ;  whose  hearts  are  often  as  tender  and  as  pure  as  their  own 
arbutus  blooming  under  snow, —  to  such  a  reader,  nothing  she  has  to 
say  of  this  strange,  bitter-sweet  country  is  impossible. 

He  who  has  gotten  at  the  secret  of  New  England  can  believe  that 
Mrs.  Slosson  has  seized  upon  a  perfectly  recognizable  element  of  its 
life  when  she  draws  its  men  and  women  as  shrewd,  witty,  wise,  and 
"off  on  some  point.  Her  characters  for  the  most  part  tell  their 
own  story :  or  they  tell  them  to  the  writer,  who  instinctively  shows 
herself  to  be  of  a  different  mold,  perhaps  a  different  creed,  but  whose 
intercourse  with  her  homely  friends  has  no  superciliousness  in  it,  or 
the  hardness  of  the  mere  exploiter  of  literary  « copy  >> ;  she  treats 
them  rathfer  with   a  fine  reverence  and   tender  charity,  which  at  th? 


13488 


ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON 


same  time  recognizes  fhe  sharp  passages  in  the  drama  of  life.  This 
dramatic  power  is  perhaps  a  hint  that  she  would  be  a  weaver  of  pure 
romance ;  but  the  subtle  instinct  of  the  artist  tells  her  that  to  make 
such  characters  as  hers  other  than  they  are,  she  must  throw  them 
upon  a  perfectly  naturalistic  background. 

Therefore  she  paints  a  scene,  minute  in  detail,  recognizable  by 
every  visitor  to  the  chosen  regions  where  her  story  is  laid.  It  may 
be  the  old  "Indian  burying-ground,*^  so  called,  in  the  pine  forest  along 
the  banks  of  Gale  River;  or  the  margin  of  Pond  Brook  in  Franconia, 
the  peaceful  little  village  among  the  northern  hills ;  or  in  a  street 
in  quiet  Sudbury.  Or  Hartford  is  the  chosen  spot;  and  Hartford 
names,  and  faces  as  stable  as  New  England  principles,  are  introduced 
to  give  an  air  of  reality  to  such  a  whimsical  conception  as  *  Butter- 
neggs.> 

Mrs.  Slosson  is  a  trained  botanist  and  entomologist,  and  to  the 
skill  of  the  literary  artist  is  added  a  store  of  experience  gleaned  from 
the  meadows  and  the  woods.  All  the  lovely  wild  flowers  of  the 
northern  spring  and  summer  are  gathered  in  heaps  of  soft  greenness 
and  bits  of  bright  color  in  her  backgrounds;  and  all  the  songs  of 
the  thicket,  the  swamp,  and  the  wood,  make  music  there.  But  there 
are  lonely  farm-houses,  where  solitary  souls  have  thought  and  pon- 
dered in  the  long  winter  nights,  till  they  have  mused  too  long;  and 
to  recompense  them  for  the  companionship,  the  beauty,  the  poetry, 
which  they  have  missed,  like  Peter  Ibbetson  in  Du  Maurier's  lovely 
story  they  have  "learned  how  to  dream. '^  Cap'n  Burdick's  dream 
is  of  the  millennium.  Uncle  Enoch  Stark's  is  of  his  sister  Lucilla, 
who  died  before  he  was  born,  but  to  him  lives  vaguely  somewhere  in 
the  dim  West.  Aunt  Randy  dreams  that  Jacob,  a  worm,  "  favors  '* 
her  dead  boy;  and  when  he  becomes  a  butterfly,  she  is  convinced  of 
the  resurrection.  Wrestlin'  Billy  earned  his  name  because  he  shared 
with  the  patriarch  the  honor  of  a  struggle  with  an  angel.  "  Faith 
Came  and  Went**  in  the  vision  of  a  plain,  shy  Sudbury  woman.  A 
Speakin'  Ghost  comforted  and  illumined  a  Kittery  exile  imprisoned 
as  caretaker  in  a  New  York  city  house. 

"They  have  different  names  for  sech  folks,**  continues  Aunt 
Charry.  "They  say  they're  <  cracked,*  they've  *got  a  screw  loose,* 
they're  <a  little  off,*  they  <  ain't  all  there,*  and  so  on.  But  nothin' 
accounts  for  their  notions  so  well  to  my  mind  as  to  say  they're  all 
jest  dreamin'.  .  .  .  And  what's  more,  I  believe  when  they  look 
back  on  those  soothin',  sleepy,  comfortin'  idees  o'  theirn,  that  some- 
how helped  'em  along  through  all  the  pesterin'  worry  and  frettin' 
trouble  o'  this  world, — I  believe,  I  say,  that  they're  glad  too.** 

All  this  is  impossible  ?  Who  shall  say  that  these  dreams  are  but 
the  expansion  of  idiosyncrasies  ?  For,  science  to  the  contrary,  they 
are  chapters  in  the  history  of  the  soul. 


ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON  1 3489 

From  too  tense  a  strain  on  the  emotions  Mrs.  Slosson  is  delivered 
by  a  whimsical  and  acute  sense  of  humor, —  a  distinctly  feminine 
humor, —  which  happily  comes  to  relieve  the  overcharged  heart. 
Without  it  the  reader  would  be  unduly  oppressed;  but  who  can  resist 
a  Speakin'  Ghost  who  is  not  dim  nor  fair  nor  cold,  but  « about  four- 
teen or  fifteen,  I  should  think,  and  noway  pretty  to  look  at:  real 
freckled,  but  that  warn't  no  great  drawback  to  me,  an'  he  had  a  kind 
of  light  reddish-yaller  hair,  not  very  slick,  but  mussy  and  rough- 
like. I  knowed  he  was  from  the  country  as  soon's  I  seed  him.  Any 
one  could  tell  that.  His  hands  were  red  an'  rough  an'  scratched,  an' 
he  had  warts. '^ 

And  who  could  help  comforting  with  promises  of  «what  she  would 
be  let  to  do  in  heaven, '^  poor  Colossy  the  little  paralytic,  who 
dreamed  about  cooking,  and  made  a  pudding  with  « a  teacupful  of 
anise  and  cumin,"  cooked  in  a  «yaller"  baking-dish,  in  "a  pint  of 
milk  and  honey"  ? 

The  humor  of  '  Butterneggs  >  is  pure  fun.  Loretty  Knapp,  Coscob 
Knapp,  a  spinster  of  seventy,  brisk,  keen,  and  controversial,  is  pos- 
sessed with  the  truth  of  heredity;  and  to  trace  its  effects,  dreams 
of  a  sister,  who  inherited  all  the  family  traits.  For  Coretty  Knapp, 
born  at  sea,  and  lost  for  thirty  years,  when  she  appeared  in  Hartford 
«  wrapped  in  furry  an'  skinny  garm'nts,"  was  a  Knapp  all  over.  The 
ministers'  meeting  called  to  find  out  the  original  religion,  politics,  and 
social  instincts  of  this  modern  Caspar  Hauser  failed  indeed  in  its 
object,  but  firmly  settled  the  theory  of  inheritance.  <  Butterneggs  > 
is  the  most  «  knowing,"  bewildering  story, —  the  fun  almost  bubbling 
over,  but  never  quite. 

Mrs.  Slosson's  lovely  spirit  teaches  her  to  preserve  the  dignity  of 
New  England  life  through  all  the  whimsicalities  of  her  characters. 
Her  religion  is  the  kindly  one  of  a  belief  in  the 'final  reward  of  good 
living;  and  that  "up  yonder,"  as  Mrs.  Peevy  in  <  Dumb  Foxglove* 
put  it,  "they  make  allowances  fast  enough."  Her  most  eccentric  and 
highly  intensified  characters  are  never  repulsive,  but  claim  the  sym- 
pathy with  which  she  would  surround  all  those  who  in  a  kindlier 
tongue  than  ours  are  called  God's  Fools.  , 

Amonj^  Mrs.  Slosson's  later  books  arc  (White  Christopher)  (1901); 
(Aunt  Abby's  Neij^hbors)  (1902);  (A  Dissatisfied  Soul)  (1908);  <A 
Little  Shepherd  of  Bethlehem)   (1913),  and  (Puzzled  Souls)   (1915). 


13490  ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON 


[From  <  Seven  Dreamers.>     Copyright  1890,  by  Harper  &  Brothers.] 

BUTTERNEGGS 

<<  I  had  a  sister 
Whom  the  blind  waves  and  surges  have  devoured. » 

—  < Twelfth  Night.* 

SHE  was  a  woman  of  nearly  seventy,  I  should  think;    tall,  thin, 
and  angular,  with  strongly  marked  features  and  eyes  of  very 
pale  blue.      Her  hair,  still  dark,  though   streaked  with   gray, 
was  drawn  back  from  her  temples  and   twisted  into  a  little  hard 
knot  behind,  and  she   wore   no   cap.     We   had   scarcely  exchanged 
greetings  before  her  eyes  fell  upon  my  modest  bouquet. 

"  Butterneggs,  I  declare  for  't !  '*  she  exclaimed  with  lively 
interest;  *' fust  I've  seed  this  season;  mine  don't  show  a  speck  o' 
blowth  yet,  an'  mine's  gen'lly  fust.  Where  'd  it  grow,  ma'am,  'f  I 
may  ask  ?  ^* 

I  told  her  of  the  spot  near  Buttermilk  Falls  where  we  had 
found  it;  but  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  inform  her  that  we 
had  gone  there  in  search  of  the  plant  at  Jane's  suggestion,  that 
the  sight  of  it  might  prompt  the  old  woman  to  tell  a  certain  tale. 
I  begged  her  at  once  to  accept  the  flowers,  which  she  did  with 
evident  pleasure,  placing  the  homely  little  nosegay  carefully  in 
water.  For  a  vase  she  used  a  curious  old  wineglass,  tall  and 
quaint;  far  more  desirable  in  my  eyes  than  a  garden  full  of  the 
common  yellow  flowers  it  held,  and  I  bent  forward  eagerly  to 
examine  it.  Aunt'  Loretty  seemed  to  regard  my  interest  as  wholly 
botanical  in  its  nature,  and  centred  upon  her  beloved  Linaria 
vulgaris;  and  I  at  once  rose  in  her  estimation. 

/*  It's  a  sightly  posy,  ain't  it,  ma'am?"  she  said;  *'jest  about 
the  likeliest  there  is,  I  guess.  But  then  it's  heredit'ry  in  our 
fam'ly,  so  o'  course  I  like  it.'* 

**  Hereditary!  **  I  exclaimed,  forgetting  for  a  moment  my 
promise  to  take  things  quietly,  showing  no  surprise  or  incredulity. 
**  Butter-and-eggs  hereditary  in  your  family!" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  'tis;  leastways  the  settin'  by  't  is.  All  the 
Knappses  set  everything  by  butterneggs.  Ye  can't  be  a  Knapp  — 
course  I  mean  our  branch  o'  the  fam'ly  —  ye  can't  be  one  o'  our 
Knappses  an'  not  have  that  plant,  with  its  yeller  blooms  an'  little 
narrer  whity-green  leaves,  for  yer  fav'rite.     The   Knappses  allers 


ANNIE    TRUMBULL    hLOSSON  I349I 

held  it  so,  an'  they  allers  will  hold  it  so,  or  they  won't  be 
Knappses.  Didn't  I  never  tell  ye,  ^*  she  asked,  turning  to  my 
companion,  "  'bout  my  sister,  an'  losin'  her,  an'  the  way  I  come 
to  find  her?" 

I  do  not  remember  just  how  Jane  evaded  this  direct  question; 
but  her  reply  served  the  desired  purpose,  and  Aunt  Loretty  was 
soon  started  upon  her  wonderful  story. 

"  My  father  was  Cap'n  Zenas  Knapp,  born  right  here  in  Cos- 
cob.  He  follered  the  sea;  an  's  there  warn't  much  sea  'round  here 
to  foller,  he  moved  down  Stonin'ton  way,  an'  took  ter  whalin'. 
An'  bimeby  he  married  a  gal  down  there,  S'liny  Ann  Beebe,  an' 
he  lost  sight  an'  run  o'  Coscob  an'  the  Knappses  for  a  long  spell. 
But  pa  was  a  Knapp  clear  through  'f  there  ever  was  one ;  the 
very  Knappiest  Knapp,  sot'speak,  o'  the  hull  tribe,  an'  that's 
puttin'  it  strong  'nough.  All  their  ways,  all  their  doin's,  their 
likin's  an'  dislikin's,  their  take-tos  an'  their  don't-take-tos,  their 
goods  an'  their  bads  —  he  had  'em  all  hard.  An'  they  Jiad  ways, 
the  Knappses  had,  an'  they've  got  'em  still,  what's  left  o'  the 
fam'ly  —  the  waysiest  ways!  Some  folks  ain't  that  kind,  ye  know: 
theyre  jest  like  other  folks.  If  ye  met  'em  'way  from  hum  ye 
wouldn't  know  where  they  come  from  or  whose  relations  they 
was:  they  might  be  Peckses  o'  Horseneck,  or  Noyeses  o'  West'ly, 
or  Simsb'ry  Phelpses,  or  agin  they  might  be  Smithses  o'  ary 
place,  for  all  the  fam'ly  ways  they'd  got.  But  our  folks,  the  hull 
tribe  on  'em,  was  tarred  with  the  same  stick,  's  ye  might  say; 
ye'd  'a  knowed  'em  for  Knappses  wherever  they  was  —  in  Coscob, 
Stonin'ton,  or  Chiny.  F'rinstance,  for  one  thing,  they  was  all 
Congr'ation'l  in  religion;  they  allers  had  ben  from  the  creation  o' 
the  airth.  Some  folks  might  say  to  that,  that  there  wa'n't  no 
Congr'ation'l  meetin's  's  fur  back  's  that.  Well,  I  won't  be  too 
sot, —  mebbe  there  wa'n't:  but  'f  that's  so,  then  there  wa'n't  no 
Knappses;  there  couldn't  be  Knappses  an'  no  Congr'ation'lists. 
An'  they  all  b'lieved  in  foreord'nation  an'  'lection.  They  was 
made  so.  Ye  didn't  have  ter  larn  it  to  'cm :  they  got  it  jest  's 
they  got  teeth  when  'twas  time,  they  took  it  jest  's  they  took 
hoopin'-cough  an'  mumps  when  they  ^yas  'round.  They  didn't, 
ary  one  on  'cm,  need  the  cat'chism  to  larn  'em  'bout  *  Whereby 
for  's  own  glory  he  hath  foreordained  whats'ever  comes  to  pass,* 
nor  to  tell  'em  't  *•  He  out  o'  his  mere  good  pleasure  from  all 
etarnity  'lected  some  to  everlastin'  life*;  they  knowed  it  their- 
selves,   the    Knappses   did.      An'    they   stuck    to    their   b'liefs,  an' 


73492  ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON 

would   'a'  stood  up  on  the  Saybrook   platform  an'  ben  burnt  up 
for  'em,  like  John  Rogers  in  the  cat'chism,  sayin',  — 

*■  What  though  this  carcass  smart  a  while. 
What  though  this  life  decay.  ^ 

*An'  they  was  all  Whigs  in  pol'tics.  There  wa'n't  never  a 
Knapp  —  our  branch  —  who  voted  the  Dem'cratic  ticket.  They 
took  that  too:  no  need  for  their  pa's  to  tell  'em;  jest  's  soon  's 
a  boy  got  to  be  twenty-one,  an'  'lection  day  come  round,  up  he 
went  an'  voted  the  Whig  ticket,  sayin'  nothin'  to  nobody.  An' 
so  'twas  in  everything.  They  had  ways  o'  their  own.  It  come 
in  even  down  to  readin'  the  Scriptur's;  for  every  Knapp  't  ever 
I  see  p'ferred  the  Book  o'  Rev'lations  to  ary  other  part  o'  the 
Bible.  They  liked  it  all,  o'  course,  for  they  was  a  pious  breed, 
an'  knowed  't  all  Scriptur  's  give  by  insp'ration,  an'  's  prof't'ble, 
an'  so  forth ;  but  for  stiddy,  every-day  readin'  give  'em  Rev'la- 
tions. An'  there  was  lots  o'  other  little  ways  they  had,  too;  sech 
as  strong  opp'sition  to  Baptists,  an'  dreffle  dislikin'  to  furr'ners, 
an'  the  greatest  app'tite  for  old-fashioned,  hum-made,  white-oak 
cheese. 

^*  Then  they  was  all  'posed  to  swearin',  an'  didn't  never  use 
perfane  language,  none  o'  the  Knappses;  but  there  was  jest  one 
sayin'  they  had  when  'xcited  or  s'prised  or  anything,  an'  that 
was,  *  C'rinthians !  ^  They  would  say  that,  all  on  'em,  'fore  they 
died,  one  time  or  'nother.  An'  when  a  Knapp  said  it,  it  did 
sound  like  the  awf'lest  kind  o'  perfan'ty;  but  o'  course  it  wa'n't. 
An'  'fore  an'  over  all,  every  born  soul  on  'em  took  ter  flowers  an' 
gardens.  They  would  have  'em  wherever  they  was.  An'  every- 
thing they  touched  -growed  an'  thriv:  drouth  didn't  dry  'em,  wet 
didn't  mold  'em,  bugs  didn't  eat  'em ;  they  come  up  an'  leafed 
out  an'  budded  an'  blowed  for  the  poorest,  needin'est  Knapp  't 
lived,  with  only  the  teentiest  bit  of  a  back  yard  for  'em  to  grow 
in,  or  broken  teapots  an'  cracked  pitchers  to  hold  'em.  But  they 
might  have  all  the  finest  posies  in  the  land,  roses  an'  heelyer- 
tropes  an'  verbeny  an'  horseshoe  g'raniums,  an'  they'd  swop  'em 
all  off,  ary  Knapp  would, —  our  branch, — for  one  single  plant  o' 
that  blessed  flower  ye  fetched  me  to-day,  butterneggs.  How  't 
come  about  's  more  'n  I  can  say,  or  how  long  it's  ben  goin'  on, 
—  from  the  very  fust  start  o'  things,  fortino;  but  tennerate,  every 
single  Knapp  I  ever  see  or  heerd  on  held  butterneggs  to  be  the 
beautif'lest  posy  God  ever  made. 


ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON 


•3493 


"  I  can't  go  myself  in  my  rec'lection  back  o'  my  great-gran'- 
mother;  but  I  r'member  her,  though  I  was  a  speck  of  a  gal  when 
she  died.  She  was  a  Bissell  o'  Nor'field,  this  State,  but  she 
married  a  Knapp,  an'  seemed  to  grow  right  inter  Knapp  ways; 
an'  she  an'  gran'f'ther  —  great-gran'f'ther  I  mean,  Shearjashub 
Knapp  —  they  used  to  have  a  big  bed  o'  butterneggs  in  front  o' 
the  side  door,  an'  it  made  the  hull  yard  look  sunshiny  even  when 
the  day  was  dark  an'  drizzly.  There  ain't  nothin'  shinin'er  an' 
goldier  than  them  flowers  with  the  different  kinds  o'  yeller  in 
'em;  they'll  most  freckle  ye,  they're  so  much  like  the  sun  shinin'. 
Then  the  next  gen'ration  come  Gran'pa  Knapp, —  his  given  name 
was  Ezry, —  an'  he  was  bed-rid  for  more  'n  six  year.  An'  he  had 
butterneggs  planted  in  boxes  an'  stood  all  'round  his  bed,  an'  he 
did  take  sech  comf't  in  'em.  The  hull  room  was  yeller  with  'em, 
an'  they  give  him  a  sort  o'  biliousy,  jandersy  look;  but  he  did 
set  so  by  'em;  an'  the  very  last  growin'  thing  the  good  old  man 
ever  set  eyes  on  here  b'low,  afore  he  see  the  green  fields  beyond 
the  swellin'  flood,  was  them  bright  an'  shinin'  butterneggs.  An' 
his  sister  Hopey,  she  't  married  Enoch  Ambler  o'  Green's  Farms, 
I  never  shall  forgit  her  butterneggs  border  't  run  all  'round  her 
garden ;  the  pea-green  leaves  an'  yeller  an'  saffrony  blooms  looked 
for  all  the  world  like   biled   sparrergrass  with  chopped-egg  sarce. 

"  Well,  you'll  wonder  what  on  airth  I'm  at  with  all  this  rig- 
majig  'bout  the  Knappses  an'  their  ways;  but  you'll  see  bimeby 
that  it's  all  got  suthin'  to  do  with  the  story  I  begun  on  'bout  my 
sister,  an'  the  way  I  come  to  lose  her  an'  find  her  ag'in.  There's 
jest  one  thing  more  I  must  put  in,  an'  that's  how  the  Knappses 
gen'lly  died.  'Twas  e'enamost  allers  o'  dumb  ager.  That's  what 
they  called  it  them  days:  I  s'pose  'twould  be  malairy  now, — 
but  that  wa'n't  invented  then,  an'  we  had  to  git  along  's  well  's 
we  could  without  sech  lux'ries.  The  Knappses  was  long-lived, — 
called  threescore  'n  ten  bein'  cut  off  in  the  midst  o'  your  days; 
but  when  they  did  come  ter  die  'twas  most  gen'lly  of  dumb 
ager.  But  even  'bout  that  they  had  their  own  ways;  an'  when 
a  Knapp  —  our  branch  I  would  say — got  dumb  ager,  why,  'twas 
dumber  an'  agerer  'n  other  folkses  dumb  ager,  an'  so  't  got  the 
name  o'  the  Knapp  shakes.  An'  they  all  seemed  to  use  the 
same  rem 'dies  an'  physics  for  the  c'mplaint.  They  wa'n't  much 
for  doctors,  but  they  all  b'lievcd  in  yarbs  an'  hum-made  steeps 
an'  teas.  An'  'thout  any  'dvice  or  doctor's  receipts  or  anything, 
's  soon   's  they   felt  the    creepy,  goose-fleshy,    shiv'ry   feelin'    that 


^3494 


ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SL03S0N 


meant  dumb  ager,  with  their  heads  het  up  an'  their  feet  'most 
froze,  they'd  jest  put  some  cam'mile  an'  hardhack  to  steep,  an' 
sew  a  strip  o'  red  flann'l  round  their  neck,  an'  put  a  peppergrass 
poultice  to  the  soles  o'  their  feet,  an'  go  to  bed;  an'  there  they'd 
lay,  drinkin'  their  cam'mile  an'  hardhack,  strong  an'  hot,  an' 
allers  with  their  head  on  a  hard  thin  piller,  till  all  was  over,  an' 
they  was  in  a  land  where  there's  no  dumb  ager  nor  any  kind  o' 
sickness  't  all.  Gran'f'ther  died  o'  dumb  ager;  great-gran'f'ther 
died  on  it  —  had  it  six  year;  Aunt  Hopey  Ambler,  great-aunt 
Cynthy,  an'  second  cousin  Shadrach,  all  went  off  that  way.  An* 
pa  —  well,  he  didn't  die  so;    but  that's  part  o'  my  sister's  story. 

"  Ma,  she  was  a  Beebe,  's  I  said  afore ;  but  she  might  'a'  ben 
'most  anything  else,  for  there  wa'n't  any  strong  Beebe  ways  to 
her.  Her  mother  was  a  Palmer, —  'most  everybody's  mother  is, 
down  Stonin'ton  way,  ye  know, —  an'  ma  was  's  much  Palmer  's 
Beebe,  an'  she  was  more  Thayer  than  ary  one  on  'em  (her  gran'- 
mother  was  a  Thayer).  So  't  stands  to  reason  that  when  we 
child'n  come  'long  we  was  more  Knapp  than  Beebe.  There  was 
two  on  us,  twins  an'  gals,  me  an'  my  sister;  an'  they  named  us 
arter  pa's  twin  sisters  't  died  years  afore,  Coretty  an'  Loretty, — 
an'  I'm  Loretty. 

^*  Well,  by  the  time  we  was  four  year  old  pa  he'd  riz  to  be 
cap'n.  He  was  honest  an'  stiddy,  's  all  the  Knappses  be,  an' 
that's  the  sort  they  want  for  whalin'.  So  when  the  Tiger  was 
to  be  fitted  up  for  a  three-year  v'y'ge,  why,  there  was  nothin'  for 
't  but  pa  he  must  go  cap'n.  But  ma  she  took  on  so  'bout  it, — 
for  he  hadn't  ben  off  much  sence  she  married  him, —  that  jest 
for  peace,  if  nothin'  else,  he  fin'lly  consented  to  take  her  an'  the 
twins  along  too;  an'  so  we  went.  Well,  I  can't  tell  ye  much 
about  that  v'y'ge,  o'  course.  I  was  only  a  baby,  an'  all  I  know 
about  it  's  what  ma  told  me  long  a'terward.  But  the  v'y'ge  'a'n'f 
got  much  to  do  with  my  story.  They  done  pretty  fair:  took  a 
good  many  sperm  whales,  got  one  big  lump  o'  ambergrease,  an' 
pa  he  was  in  great  sperrits;  when  all  on  a  suddent  there  come  a 
dreffle  storm,  an'  they  lost  their  reck'nin',  an'  they  got  on  some 
rocks,  an'  the  poor  old  Tiger  went  all  to  pieces.  I  never  can 
rightly  remember  how  any  soul  on  us  was  saved;  but  we  was, 
some  way  or  other,  ma  an'  me  an'  some  o'  the  crew, — but  poor 
pa  an'  Coretty  was  lost.  As  nigh  's  I  can  rec'lect  the  story,  we 
was  tied  to  suthin'  '  nuther  that  'd  float,  ma  an'  me,  an'  a  ship 
picked  us  up  an'  fetched  us  home.     Tennerate  we  got  here, —  to 


ANNIE  TRUMBULL  SLOSSON  1 3495 

Stonin'ton  I  mean ;  but  poor  ma  was  a  heart-broken  widder,  an' 
I  was  half  an  orph'n  an'  only  half  a  pair  o'  twins.  For  my  good 
pa  an'  that  dear  little  Coretty  was  both  left  far  behind  in  the 
dreadful  seas.     An'  that's*  why  pa  didn't  die  o'  the  Knapp  shakes. 

"  I  won't  take  up  your  time  tellin'  all  that  come  artcr  that,  for 
it's  another  part  you  want  to  hear.  So  I'll  skip  over  to  the  time 
when  I  was  a  woman  growed,  ma  dead  an'  gone,  an'  me  livin' 
all  by  myself  —  a  single  woman,  goin'  on  thirty-seven  year  old, 
or  p'r'aps  suthin'  older  —  in  Har'ford,  this  State.  I'd  had'  my 
ups  an'  my  downs,  more  downs  than  tips;  I'd  worked  hard  an' 
lived  poor:  but  I  was  a  Knapp,  an'  never  gin  up,  an'  so  at  last 
there  I  was  in  a  little  bit  of  a  house,  all  my  own,  on  Morg'n 
Street,  Har'ford.  An'  there  I  lived,  quite  well-to-do,  an'  no  dis- 
grace to  any  Knapp  't  ever  lived,  be  she  who  she  be.  I  had 
plenty  to  do,  though  I  hadn't  any  reg'lar  trade.  I  wa'n't  a  tail'r- 
ess  exactly,  but  I  could  make  over  their  pas'  pant'loons  for 
boys,  an'  cut  out  jackets  by  a  pattern  for  'em;  an'  I  wa'n't  a  real 
mill'ner,  but  I  could  trim  up  a  bimnet  kind  o'  tasty,  an'  bleach 
over  a  Leghorn  or  a  fancy  braid  as  well  as  a  perfession'l;  I 
never  larnt  the  dressmakin'  trade,  but  I  knew  how  to  cut  little 
gals'  frocks  an'  make  their  black-silk  ap'ons;  an'  I'd  rip  up  an' 
press  an'  clean  ladies'  dresses,  an'  do  over  their  crape  an'  love 
veils,  an'  steam  up  their  velvet  ribb'ns  over  the  tea-kettle  to 
raise  the  pile.  An'  I  sewed  over  carpets,  an'  stitched  wristban's, 
an'  —  I  don't  know  what  I  didn't  do  them  days:  for  I  had  what 
ary  Knapp  I  ever  see  —  I  mean  our  branch  —  had  all  their  born 
days;  an'  that  was,  's  I  'spose  you  know,   o'  course  —  fac'lty. 

**An'  the  best  fam'lies  in  Har'ford  employed  me,  an'  set  by 
me;  an'  knowin'  what  I  was  an'  what  my  an'stors  had  ben,  they 
treated  me  's  if  I  was  one  of  their  own  sort.  An'  ag'in  an'  ag'in 
I've  set  to  the  same  table  with  sech  folks  's  the  Wadsworthses 
an'  Ellsworthses  an'  Terrys  an'  Wellses  an'  Huntin'tons.  An' 
I  made  a  good  deal  outer  my  gard'nin'.  I  had  all  the  Knapp 
hank'rin'  for  that;  an'  from  the  time  I  was  a  mite  of  a  gal  I 
was  allers  diggin'  an'  scratchin'  in  the  dirt  like  a  hen,  stickin' 
in  seeds  an'  slips,  an'  pullin'  u])  weeds,  snippin'  an'  prunin'  an' 
trainin'  an'  wat'rin'.  An'  I  had  the  beautif'lest  gard'n  in  Har'- 
ford, an'  made  a  pretty  penny  outer  it  too.  I  sold  slips  an'  cut- 
tin's,  an'  saved  seeds  o'  my  best  posies,  puttin'  'em  up  in  little 
paper  cases  pasted  over  at  the  edges;  an'  there  was  plenty  o' 
cust'mers   for  'cm,    I  can   tell   ye.      For  my  sunflowers   was  's  big 


13496 


ANNIE    TRUMBULL    SLOSSON 


as  pie  plates,  my  hollyhawks  jest  dazzlin'  to  look  at,  my  cant'- 
b'ry -bells  big  an'  blue,  my  dailyers  's  quilly  's  quills  —  all  colors; 
I  had  four  kinds  o'  pinks;  I  had  bach'lor's-buttons,  feather-fews, 
noneserpretties,  sweet-williams,  chiny-asters,  flowerdelooses,  tu- 
lups,  daffies,  larkspurs,  prince 's-feathers,  cock's-combs,  red-balm, 
mournin'-bride,  merrygools —  Oh,  I'm  all  outer  breath,  an'  I 
'a'n't  told  ye  half  the  blooms  I  had  in  that  Har'ford  garden. 
But  I  could  tell  ye!  If  'twas  all  drawed  out  there  on  that  floor 
an'  painted  to  life,  I  couldn't  see  it  any  plainer  'n  I  see  't  this 
minnit,  eyes  shet  or  op'n.  An'  how  I  did  set  by  them  beds! 
Dr.  Hawes — I  went  to  the  Centre  to  meetin' — Dr  Hawes  he 
says,  one  time  when  he  come  to  make  a  past'ral  call,  says  he  in 
his  way, — he  was  kinder  ongraceful,  ye  know, —  p'intin'  his  long 
finger  at  me  an'  shakin'  it  up  an'  down,  he  says:  ^  Loretty, 
Loretty,  *  very  loud  an'  solemn,  ye  know,  *  don't  you  set  your 
'fections  on  them  fadin'  flowers  o'  earth  an'  forgit  the  never- 
with'rin'  flowers  o'  heaven,*  he  says.  Ye  see  he'd  ben  prayin' 
with  me,  an'  right  in  the  midst  an'  'mongst  o'  his  prayer  he 
ketched  sight  o'  me  reachin'  out  to  pull  up  a  weed  in  the  box 
o'  young  balsams  I  was  startin'  in  the  house.  So  'tain't  no 
wonder  he  was  riled;  for  he  was  dreffle  good,  an'  was  one  of 
them   folks  who,   's  the  hymn   says, — 

*  Knows  the  wuth  o'  prayer, 
An'  wishes  often  to  be  there.* 

"  Well,  'twas  'bout  that  time,  's  I  was  sayin',  an'  I  was  a  sin- 
gle woman  o'  thirty-seven,  or  p'r'aps  a  leetle  more, —  not  wuth 
countin'  on  a  single  woman's  age, — when  there  come  upon  me 
the  biggest,  awf'lest,  scariest  s'prise  't  ever  come  upon  any  one 
afore,  let  'lone  a  Knapp  —  our  branch.  A  letter  come  to  me 
one  day  from  Cap'n  Akus  Chadwick,  form'ly  o'  Stonin'ton,  an'  a 
friend  o'  pa's,  but  now  an  old  man  in  New  Lon'on,  an'  this  's 
what  he  says:  Seems  't  a  ship  'd  come  into  New  Bedford,  a 
whalin'  ship,  with  a  r'mark'ble  story.  They'd  had  rough  weather 
an'  big  gales,  an'  got  outer  their  course,  an'  they'd  sighted  land, 
an'  when  they  come  to  't — I  don't  know  how  or  why  they  did 
come  to  't,  whether  they  meant  ter  or  had  ter  —  they  see  on  the 
shore  a  woman,  an'  when  they  landed  there  wa'n't'  ary  other 
folks  on  the  hull  island:  nothin'  but  four-footed  critters  —  wild 
ones  —  an'  birds  an'  monkeys,  an'  all  kinder  outlandish  bein's;  not 
a  blessed   man   or  woman,  not  even  a  heath 'n  or  a  idle,  's  fur  's 


ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON  13497 

they  could  tell,  in  the  hull  deestrick,  but  only  jest  this  one  poor 
woman.  An'  she  couldn't  talk  no  more  'n  Juley  Brace  to  the  'sy- 
lum;  an  she  was  queer-lookin',  an'  her  clo'es  was  all  outer  fash'n, 
kinder  furry  an'  skinny  garm'nts,  an'  she  had  a  lonesome,  scaret 
kinder  look,  's  if  she  hadn't  ben  much  in  comp'ny.  An'  yit  with 
't  all  there  was  a  sorter  r'spectable  'pearance,  an' —  O  ladies,  I'm 
all  stuffed  up,  ?n'  can't  swaller  good.  I'm  livin'  over  'n  my  mind 
the  fust  time  I  read  them  words,  an'  was  struck  all  'n  a  heap  by 
'em.  Jest  hand  me  them  posies  a  minute,  an'  I'll  be  all  right  in 
a  jiffy. —  There,  now  I  can  go  on.  With  it  all,  he  says,  there 
was  a  strong  Knapp  look  about  this  unfort'nate  isl'nder;  in  fac', 
she  favored  'em  so  strong  't  the  fust  mate,  a  Mystic  man,  who'd 
often  heerd  the  story  o'  pa's  shipwreck  an*  Coretty's  drownin', 
thought  he'd  orter  'nquire  inter  the  matter.  The  cap'n  o'  the 
ship  was  a  Scotchman,  an'  the  sailors  was  mostly  Portergeese,  an' 
Sandwidgers,  an'  Kannakers;  an'  she  wouldn't  take  no  notice  o' 
ary  on  'em,  an'  tried  to  run  away.  But  when  'Lias  Mall'ry,  the 
mate,  went  up  to  her,  she  stopped  an'  looked  't  him,  an'  kinde: 
gabbled  a  leetle  bit,  in  a  jibbery  sorter  way,  an'  when  he  ast  her 
to  come  aboard  she  follered  like  a  lamb.  An'  they  fetched  her 
along,  an'  the  more  they  see  on  her  —  I  mean  'Lias,  who  was  the 
only  one  't  knowed  the  Knappses,  our  branch  —  the  more  't  seemed 
sure  an'  sartin  't  this  was  reely  an'  truly,  strange  as  't  might  be, 
Coretty  Knapp,  who'd  ben  lost  more'n  thirty  year  afore.  There's 
no  use  my  tryin'  to  tell  you  how  I  felt,  or  what  I  done  jest  at 
fust:  when  I  read  that  letter  I  couldn't  seem  to  sense  it  one 
mite;  an'  yit  in  half  an  hour  't  seemed  's  if  I'd  a-knowed  it  a 
year,  an'  I  never  misdoubted  that  'twas  true  's  gospil,  an'  that 
my  poor  dear  little  twin  sister  Coretty  'd  ben  found  an'  was 
comin'  home  to  me. 

**  I  gin  up  pa  t'  wunst;  he'd  'a'  ben  too  old  now,  even  for  a 
Knapp,  an'  I  see  plain  enough  't  he  must  be  deader  'n  dead:  but 
oh,  what  'twas  to  realize  't  I  had  a  reel  flesh-an'-blood  sister, 
queer  an'  oncivilized  's  she  must  be  a'ter  livin'  in  the  backwoods 
so  long!  The  letter  went  on  to  say  that  'Lias  IMall'ry  was  on  his 
way  to  Har'ford  this  very  minute,  *bringin'  Miss  Knapp  to  her 
only  livin'  relation^  —  that  was  me.  An'  't  said  they  was  goin'  to 
bring  her  jest  's  she  was  when  they  ketched  her,  so  's  I  could  see 
her  in  her  nat'ral  state :  an'  who  had  a  better  right  ?  *■  But  land's 
sake!*  I  says  to  myself  's  I  lay  that  letter  down,  'how  she'll 
look    a-comin'  through    Har'ford    streets   all    skinny  an'   furry  an' 


13498  ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON 

jabbery  's  they  d'scribe  her!  I  do  hope  she'll  take  a  carr'ge.* 
Well,  I  couldn't  stand  all  this  alone,  an'  I  put  on  my  bunnic 
an'  shawl. an'  went  up  to  Dr.  Hawes's  an'  to  Deacon  Colton's  an' 
over  to  Sister  Pitkin's,  an'  I  told  'em  all  this  amazin'  hist'ry,  won- 
derf'ler  than  *  Rob'nson  Crusoe^  or  *  Riley's  Narr'tive.^  An'  sech 
a  stir  's  it  made  in  quiet  old  Har'ford  you'd  never  bleeve.  Afore 
I'd  fairly  got  hum  an'  took  off  my  things,  folks  begun  to  call. 
Ev'ry  one  wanted  to  know  'f  'twas  reely  an'  truly  so,  an'  'f  I  had 
a  reel  live  heath'n  sister  comin'  home  from  them  far-away  coun- 
tries where  ev'ry  prospeck  pleases  an'  only  man  is  vile.  But  this 
part  on't  I  wouldn't  hear  to  for  a  minute.  ^Whatever  she  is,*  I 
says,  *  she  ain't  a  heath'n.  She's  a  Knapp,  born  'f  not  bred,  an' 
there  never  was  a  heath'n  'mong  the  Knappses  sence  Knappses 
was  fust  made.  Mebbe  she  ain't  a  perfesser,*  I  says, —  ^  prob'ly 
ain't,  for  she  'a'n't  had  no  settled  min'ster  or  sech  priv'leges;  but 
she  don't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  idles  an'  sech  foolishness,*  I 
says.  But  I  could  see  't  they  was  countin'  on  suthin'  outer  this 
for  monthly  concert,  an'  that  stirred  me  up  a  leetle;  but  I  jest 
waited.  An'  bimeby  —  what  do  you  think  o'  this?  —  there  was  a 
c'mittee  waited  on  me.      An'  sech  a  time! 

*^  There  was  P'fessor  Phelps  o'  the  Congr'ational  Sem'nary, 
an'  P'fessor  Spencer  o'  Wash'n't'n  College,  an'  Elder  Day  the 
Baptist  min'ster;  an'  there  was  one  o'  the  Dem'cratic  ed'tors  o' 
the  Har'ford  Times,  an'  some  one  from  the  Connet'cut  Cour'nt; 
an'  Dr.  Barnes  o'  Weth'sfield,  a  infiddle,  who'd  writ  a  sorter 
Tom-Painey  book  that  was  put  inter  the  stove  by  every  Christian 
't  got  hold  on  it.  An'  there  was  Mr.  Gallagher  from  the  deaf- 
an'-dumb  'sylum,  an'  Dr.  Cook  from  the  crazy  'sylum,  an'  Mr. 
Williams  the  'Piscople  min'ster,  an'  Priest  O'Conner  the  Cath'lic, 
an'  Parson  Loomis  the  Meth'dist.  That's  'bout  all,  I  b'lieve,  but 
there  may  'a'  ben  some  I  disremember  arter  all  these  years.  An' 
what  do  you  think  —  what  do  you  think  they  wanted  ?  'Twas 
some  time  afore  I  could  see  through  their  talk  myself;  for  they 
w^as  all  big  scholars,  an'  you  know  them's  the  hardest  sort  to 
compr'end.  But  bimeby  I  made  out  't  they  was  all  dreffle  'xcited 
about  this  story  o'  my  sister;  for  it  gin  'em  a  chance  they'd 
never  'xpected  to  git,  of  a  bran'-new  human  bein'  growed  up 
without  ^precept  or  'xample,*  's  they  say,  or  ary  idee  o'  religion 
or  pol'tics  or  church  gov'ment,  or  doctrines  o'  any  sort.  An' 
they'd  all  got  together  an'  'greed,  'f  I  was  willin',  they'd  jest 
'xper'ment  on   Coretty  Knapp.     Well,  't  fust   I   didn't  take  t'  the 


ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON  13499 

idee  one  speck.  It  seemed  kinder  onnat'ral  an'  onhuman  to  go  to 
work  pullin'  to  pieces  an'  patchin'  up  an'  fittin'  in  scraps  to  this 
poor,  onfort'nate,  empty  sorter  soul,  't  had  strayed  'way  off  from 
its  hum  in  a  Christian  land  o'  deestrick  schools  an'  meetin's,  an' 
all  sech  priv'leges,  instead  o'  takin'  her  right  inter  our  hearts  an' 
'fections,  an'  larnin'  her  all  't  she  orter  know.  'T  seemed  's  if 
we  orter  let  'xper'ments  alone,  an'  go  to  coddlin'  an'  coss'tin'  up 
this  poor  lost  sheep,  which  was  wuth  far  more  'n  ninety  an'  nine 
which  goes  not  astray. 

"But  howsomepro  —  as  Elder  Cheeseman  used  to  say  —  they 
was  all,  's  I  said  afore,  larned  men,  an'  most  on  'em  good  men 
too;  an'  's  they  was  all  'greed,  an'  I  was  only  one,  and  a  woman 
too,  I  gin  up.  An'  afore  they  left,  'twas  all  settled  't  they  all 
should  have  a  try  at  poor  sister  Coretty,  an'  all  persent  their 
own  views  on  religion,  pol'tics,  an'  so  forth.  An'  me  nor  nobody 
was  to  make  nor  meddle  aforehand,  or  try  to  prej'dice  her  one 
way  or  t'other;'  an'  so  they  'xpected  to  find  out  what  the  nat'ral 
mind  would  take  ter,  or  whether  there  was  anything  't  all  in 
heredit'ry  ways.  I  could  'a'  telled  'em  that  last  afore  they  b'gun, 
but  I  thought  I'd  let  'em  find  't  out  their  own  way. 

"  You  might  think,  mebbe,  I'd  ben  scaret  'bout  the  r'sult. 
For  what  a  dreffle  thing  'f  poor  Coretty  'd  ben  talked  over  by 
Elder  Day, —  a  dreffle  glib  talker,  's  all  Baptists  be,  an'  a  reel 
good  man,  's  most  on  'erti  is,  though  I  say  't  's  shouldn't,  bein'  a 
Knapp  myself,  with  all  the  Knappses'  dislike  to  their  doctrines, 
—  what  'f  she'd  ben  talked  over  to  'mersion  an'  close  c'mmun- 
ion  views,  an'  ben  dipped  'stead  o'  sprinkled  ?  Or  ag'in,  'f  she'd 
b'lieved  all  the  Cath'lic  priest  let  on,  an'  swallered  his  can'les 
an'  beads  an'  fish  an'  sech  popish  things.  Or  wuss  still,  s'pose 
she'd  backslid  hully,  an'  put  her  trust  in  Dr.  Barnes's  talk, — 
becomin'  an  infiddle,  like  unter  the  fool  that  said  in  his  heart. 
But  some  way  or  'nother  I  wa'n't  a  mite  'fraid.  I  fell  right  back 
on  my  faith  in  a  overrulin'  Prov'dence,  an'  p'r'aps  more  on 
Knapp  ways,  an'  felt  all  the  time  Coretty  'd  come  out  right  at 
the  eend. 

"But  you  see  she  hadn't  come  yit;  an'  the  thing  was  ter  know 
whether  you  could  make  her  un'erstan'  anything  till  she'd  larnt 
to  talk.  'F  she  could  only  gabble,  how  was  any  on  us  to  know 
whether  she  gabbled  Baptistry  or  'Piscopality  or  what-all;  an'  we'd 
got  to  wait  an'  see.  An'  Mr.  Gallagher  o'  the  'sylum,  he  wanted 
to  try  her  on   signs  fust,  an'  see  'f  he   couldn't  c'mmunicatc  with 


j,-QQ  ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON 

her  right  off  by  snappin'  his  fingers  an'  screwin'  up  his  featur's 
an'  p'intin'  at  her  in  that  dumb  way  they  do  up  t'  the  'sykim. 
He  said  'twas  more  nat'ral  to  do  that  way  than  to  talk;  but 
then  he  didn't  know  much  about  the  Knappses  an'  their  powers 
o'  speech.  An'  Dr.  Cook,  the  crazy  doctor,  he  said  he  was  int- 
'rested  in  the  brains  part  o'  the  subjick,  an'  he'd  jest  like  tei 
get  at  'em;  he  wanted  to  see  what  'feet  on  her  head  an'  'djacent 
parts  this  queer  sorter  retired  life  'd  had.  An'  so  they  went  on 
till  they  went  off. 

^^  Well,  might'  's  well  come  to  the  p'int  o'  my  story,  an'  the 
blessed  minute  I  fust  see  my  twin  sister, — my  t'other  half,  you 
might  say;  for  'twas  reely  her,  a-comin'  in  at  the  gate.  'Twa'n't 
so  bad  's  I  'xpected.  I'd  kinder  got  my  head  sot  on  picters  o' 
the  Eskimoses  in  my  jography,  with  buff'lo  robes  tied  round 
'em ;  an'  I  was  r'lieved  when  I  see  her  get  outer  the  carr'ge  with 
'Lias  Mall'ry,  lookin'  quite  respect'ble  an'  Knappy.  To  be  sure 
she  had  skins  on;  but  she'd  gone  an'  made  'em  inter  a  reel  fair 
likeness  o'  my  plainest  every-day  dresses,  cut  gorin'  an'  sorter 
fittin'  in  at  the  waist,  an'  with  the  skirt  pretty  long,  'bout  to  the 
tops  o'  her  gaiters.  An'  she  had  quite  a  nice-lookin'  bunnit  on, 
braided  o'  some  kinder  furrin  grass  or  straw;  hum-made  o'  course, 
an'  not  jest  in  the  latest  fash'n, — but  that  wa'n't  to  be  'xpected 
when  she'd  made  it  'fore  ever  seein'  one.  An'  she  was  drei^e 
tanned  an'  freckled  an'  weather-beat  like,  but  oh,  my!  my!  wa'n't 
she  a  Knapp  all  over,  from  head  to  foot!  Every  featur'  favored 
some  o'  the  fam'ly.  There  was  Uncle  Zadock's  long  nose,  an' 
gran'mer's  square  chin,  an'  Aunt  Hopey's  thick  eyebrows,  an' 
dear  pa's  pacin'  walk,  an'  over  an'  above  all  there  was  me  all 
over  her,  's  if  I  was  a-lookin'  't  myself  in  a  lookin'-glass.  I  d' 
know  what  I  done  for  a  minute.  I  cried  an'  I  choked  an' 
I  blowed  my  nose,  an'  I  couldn't  say  one  blessed  word  till  I 
swallered  hard  an'  set  my  teeth,  an'  then  I  bust  out,  ^  O  Coretty 
Knapp,  I'm  glad  to  see  ye!  how's  your  health?^  I'd  forgot  for 
a  minute  'bout  her  not  talkin' ;  but  I  own  I  was  beat  when  she 
jest  says,  's  good  's  I  could  say  it  myself,  says  she,  *  Thank  ye, 
sister  Loretty:  how's  yourn?^  An'  we  shook  hands  an'  kissed 
each  other;  —  I'd  been  so  'fraid  she'd  rub  noses  or  hit  her  forrid 
on  the  ground, —  s'lammin',  's  the  books  o'  travels  says;  —  an'  then 
she  took  one  cheer  an'  I  took  another,  an'  we  both  took  a  good 
look  't  each  other,  for  you  know  we  hadn't  met  anywheres  for  the 
longest  spell.      An'   I  forgot  all  about   'Lias  Mall'ry  till  he  says. 


ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON  13501 

*You  see,  Miss  Knapp,  she  speaks  pretty  good,  don't  she  ?  Them 
Scotch  an'  Portergeese  an'  so  on  couldn't  get  a  word  out  on 
her;  but  's  soon  's  she  heerd  good  Connet'cut  spoke,  she  picked  't 
right  up  's  slick  's  anything.*  ^  O'  course  I  did,  Mr.  Mall'ry, *  says 
Coretty.  *  I  never  could  abide  them  furr'ners.  United  States 
talk  's  good  enough  for  me,*  says  she.  *  Knapp  all  over,*  says 
I;  —  ^an'  now  do  take  off  your  things  an'  jest  make  yourself  to 
hum,  an'  le's  have  a  good  old-fashioned  talk,  for  I  'a'n't  seen  none 
o'  my  folks  for  so  long.* 

^*  But  when  she  took  off  her  bunnit  an'  I  see  how  the  poor 
thing  'd  ben  an'  gone  an'  twisted  up  her  hair  behind  in  the  same 
tight,  knobby,  Knappy  way  all  the  Knappses  —  the  female  part  o' 
our  branch,  I  mean  —  had  fixed  theirn  for  gen'rations,  furzino,  I 
'most  cried  ag'in.  'Course  she  hadn't  no  hairpins  nor  shoestring 
to  fasten  't  with;  but  she'd  tied  it  tight  's  tight  with  some  kind 
o'  barky  stuff,  an'  stuck  a  big  thorn  in  to  keep  it  there. 

"  Well,  you  won't  care  'bout  our  talk :  it  was  all  folksy  an' 
Knappy  an'  'bout  fam'ly  matters,  for  we  had  lots  to  talk  about. 
She'd  lost  all  run  o'  the  fam'ly  an'  neighbors,  never  hearin'  a 
word  for  more  'n  thirty  year.  In  fac',  she'd  forgot  all  about  pa 
an'  ma  an'  me,  's  was  nat'ral,  with  not  a  livin'  soul  to  talk  to; 
for  she  owned  right  up  she'd  never  seed  a  human  bein',  or  heerd 
a  word  o'  speech,  or  seen  a  paper,  sence  I  see  her  last  in  that 
dreffle  spell  o'  weather  out  to  sea.  So  I'll  jest  jump  over  to 
where  the  'xperiment  was  tried  an*  how  it  come  out.  I'd  kep' 
my  prommus  an'  never  said  one  word  about  religion,  or  pol'tics, 
or  church  gov'ment,  or  anything  o'  that  kind,  though  I  did  ache 
to  know  her  views. 

"An'  they  all  come  in,  the  evenin'  arter  she  arriv, —  the  c'mit- 
tee,  I  mean, —  to  have  it  out  with  her.  Coretty  did'nt  s'mise 
'twas  an  'xperiment, —  she  thought  'twas  a  sorter  visitin'  time;  an' 
she  was  dreffle  fond  o'  comp'ny,  an'  never  'd  had  much  chance 
for  't.  So  there  she  set  a-knittin'  (she  took  to  that  right  off,  an' 
'fore  I'd  done  castin'  on  for  her  she  ketched  it  outer  my  hands 
an*  says,  * 'Twill  be  stronger  with  double  thread,  Loretty,*  an'  she 
raveled  it  out  an'  done  it  over  double).  She  set  there  knittin*, 
's  I  said  afore,  an'  I  set  close  by  her;  an'  the  c'mittee  they  set 
round,  an'  they'd  'greed  'mong  theirselves  how  they'd  do  it,  an' 
who'd  have  the  fust  chance;  an'  arter  a  few  p'lite  r'marks 
about  the  weather  an'  her  health,  an'  sech,  Mr.  Williams,  the 
'Piscople   min'stcr,   begun,   an*   he    says:  —  *  Miss   Knapp,   I  s'pose 


13502  ANNIE   TRUMBULL  SLOSSON 

there  wa'n't  no  Church  in  your  place  o'  res'dence,  seein'  't  there 
was  so  few  'nhabitants.  But  even  'f  there'd  a-ben  more  'f  a  par- 
ish,^ says  he,  *  there  couldn't  'a  ben  no  reel  Church^  (he  spoke 
it  with  a  cap'tle  C,  's  all  'Piscoples  does),  ^ 's  there  wa'n't  no 
prop'ly  fixed-up  priest,  nor  no  bishop  to  put  his  hands  on  one,^ 
he  says.  (Mebbe  I  don't  give  jest  the  very  words,  but  I  git  the 
meanin'  straight.)  ^  No,  sir,^  says  sister,  'there  wa'n't  a  meetin'- 
house  on  the  hull  island,  nor  any  means  o'  grace  o'  that  kind; 
for  there  wa'n't  no  folks  but  me,  an'  you  can't  have  a  prosp'rous 
religious  s'ciety  without  folks.  But  'f  there  had  ben,^  she  says, 
ribbin'  away  at  her  stockin'  top,  two  an'  one,  two  an'  one,  says 
she,  *  we'd  'a'  listened  to  a  few  can'dates,  an'  s'lected  a  suit'ble 
party,  had  a  s'ciety  meetin',  an'  called  him.  For  myself,^  says  she, 
^  I  don't  set  much  by  this  applestollic  succesh'n.  ■* 

**  Well,  I  was  beat  agin,  spite  o'  knowin'  the  strong  feelin'  o' 
the  fam'ly  on  that  very  p'int;  for  how  on  airth  'd  she  picked  up 
sech  sound  an'  good  idees  'way  off  in  that  rural  deestrick  ?  I  tell 
ye,  ye  can't  'xplain  it  on  ary  other  ground  than  zvays;  'twas  Knapp 
ways.  Mr.  Williams  he  looked  a  mite  riled,  but  he  was  a  dreffle 
pleasant  man,  an'  he  kep'  on,  though  the  others  they  sorter 
smiled.  I  can't  rec'lect  all  he  said,  but  'twas  'bout  the  orders 
in  the  Church,  the  deacons  an'  presbyter'ans  an'  bishops;  an'  he 
talked  'bout  the  creed  an'  other  art'cles  an'  collicks  an'  lit'nies, 
an'  all  them  litigical  things.  He  did  talk  beautiful,  I  own  it  my- 
self, an'  my  mouth  was  all  in  my  heart  for  a  spell,  for  Coretty 
kep'  so  still,  an'  seemed  's  if  she  was  a-listenin'  an  med'tatin'. 
But  in  a  minute  I  see  she  was  jest  countin'  her  stitches  to  set 
her  seam,  an'  I  was  r'lieved.  An'  when  he  got  through  talkin 
he  handed  her  a  prayer-book  —  jest  a  common  one,  he  called  it 
■ — an'  a  little  cat'chism.  Coretty  took  'em,  perlite  's  ye  please,  an' 
she  looked  't  the  covers,  an'  she  says  very  p'lite,  '  Much  obleeged 
to  ye,  sir;  but  they  don't  seem  ter  int'rest  me,  someway.  I  can 
make  up  prayers  for  myself,  'f  it's  all  the  same  to  you,'  she  says, 
still  dreffle  p'lite;  'an'  this  cat'chism  don't  seem  to  go  t'  the  right 
spot,  's  fur  as  I'm  consarned,'  says  she,  not  openin'  it  't  all:  'but 
I'm  jest  's  much  obleeged  to  ye;'  —  an'  she  went  on  knittin'. 

"  Then  Elder  Day  he  opened  the  subjeck  o'  Baptistry.  Fust, 
sister  Coretty  listened  p'litely  's  she  had  afore:  but  he  hadn't 
hardly  got  to  his  sec'ndly  afore  she  pricked  up  her  ears  an' 
jumped  's  if  suthin'  'd  hit  her,  an'  she  lay  down  her  stockin'  an' 
stiffened  up,  an'  she  looked   him  right  in  the  eye;    an'   'fore  he 


ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON  13503 

was  half-way  to  the  thirdly  she  broke  out,  an'  she  says:  ^  Elder 
Day,  I  don't  want  to  be  imp'lite  to  comp'ny  in  my  sister's  house, 
an'  me  jest  arriv;  but  there's  suthin'  in  me  that  reely  can't  stand 
them  doctrines  o'  yourn  another  minute,  they  rile  me  so.  No,  I 
zuon't  stand  it!*  she  says,  with  her  face  all  red,  an'  her  eyes 
snappin' ;  an'  she  b'gun  to  gether  up  her  things,  an'  git  up  outer 
her  cheer  for  a  run.  But  I  went  up  ter  her,  an'  whispered  to 
her,  an'  sorter  smoothed  her  down;  for  I  see  what  'twas,  an' 
't  the  old  Knapp  feelin'  'gainst  Baptists  that'd  ben  growin'  up 
an'  'ncreasin'  for  cent'ries  was  all  comin'  inside  on  her  t'  wunst 
an'  tearin'  her  up:  but  Elder  Day  he  jest  said,  's  pleasant  's  pic- 
crust,  he  says,  ^  Let  her  'lone.  Miss  Knapp,  an'  I'll  read  her  a 
soothin'  varse  or  two,*  an'  he  up  with  a  little  leather-covered 
book,  an'  he  read  out:  — 

"  <A  few  drops  o'  water  dropped  from  a  man's  han', — 
They  call  it  baptissum,  an'  think  it  will  stan' 
On  the  head  of  a  child  that  is  under  the  cuss; 
But  that  has  no  warrant  in  Scriptur'  for  us.* 

*<  He  was  goin'  on ;  but  Coretty  she  jest  jumped  up,  makin' 
her  cheer  fall  over  with  a  bang,  an'  she  slat  her  work  down  an' 
run  outer  the  room,  her  knittin'  bobbin'  a'ter  her, —  for  the 
ball  o'  yarn  was  in  her  pocket.  I  went  a'ter  her  to  coax  her 
back,  but  she  kcp'  a-sayin',  *0  Loretty,  what's  the  matter  o'  me! 
I'm  jest  bilin'  an'  bubblin'  an'  swellin'  up  inside,  an'  I  feel  's  if 
nothin'  could  help  me  but  burnin'  up  a  few  Baptists,*  she  says. 
An'  I  says,  ^  Keep  's  quiet  's  you  can,  sister:  it's  dreftie  tryin',  I 
know,  an'  it's  all  come  on  you  t'  wunst, —  the  strong  Knapp  feelin' 
ag'in  'em, —  but  come  back  to  the  kecpin'-room  an'  we'll  change 
the  subjeck.*  An'  she  come.  An'  then  Priest  O'Conner,  the 
Cath'lic,  he  begun  at  her;  an'  he  was  jest  's  smooth  's  silk,  an' 
he  talked  reel  fluent  'bont  the  saints,  an'  purg't'ry,  an'  Fridays, 
an'  the  bach'lor  state  for  min'sters,  an'  penances,  an'  I  d'  know 
what-all.  An'  Coretty  she  was  hard  at  work  at  her  knittin';  an' 
when  he  stopped  to  take  breath,  an'  pull  out  some  beads  an' 
medals  an'  jingly  trinkets  o'  that  sort,  she  kinder  started  's  if 
she'd  jest  waked  up,  an'  she  says,  *  'Xcuse  me,  Mr.  O'Conner,  I 
lost  the  thread  o'  what  you  was  sayin'  for  a  minute,  but  I  won't 
trouble  ye  to  go  over  't  ag'in:  I  don't  seem  ter  take  to  Cath'lics, 
an'  I  never  wear  beads.*     An'  she  M^ent  on  knittin'. 


J3504  ANNIE   TRUMBULL  SLOSSON 

"An'  so  'twas  with  'em  all, — 'Piscople,  Baptist,  Meth'dist:  every 
livin'  soul  on  'em,  they  done  their  best,  an'  never  p'duced  any 
impression  't  all.  But  bimeby  P'fessor  Phelps  o'  the  Congr'a- 
tion'l  Sem'nary,  he  got  his  turn  an'  b'gun.  Oh,  how  she  did  jest 
drink  it  in!  She  dropped  her  knittin'  an'  set  up  an'  leaned  for- 
rud,  an'  she  smiled,  an'  nodded  her  head,  an'  beat  her  hands  up 
an'  down,  an'  tapped  her  foot,  's  if  she  was  hearin'  the  takin'est 
music;  she  'most  purred,  she  seemed  so  comf't'ble  an'  sat'sfied. 
Wtmst  in  a  while  she'd  up  an'  say  suthin'  herself  'fore  he  could 
say    it.      F'rinstance,    when   he   come    to    foreord 'nation    an'   says, 

*  My  good  woman,  I  hope  soon  ter  'xplain  to  you  'bout  the  won'- 
ful   decrees  o'  God,   an'  how  they  are  his  etarnal  purpose,  an' ^ — . 

*  Don't  put  yourself  out  to  do  that,  p'fessor,'  she  says.  ^O' 
course  I  know  't  accordin'  to  the  couns'l  of  his  own  will  he  'th 
foreordained  whats'ever  cometh  to  pass;  but  Pd  jest  like  to  hear 
you  preach  on  that  subjeck.'  An'  when  he  alluded  to  some  bav- 
in' ben  'lected  to  everlastin'  life,  she  says,  kinder  low,  to  herself 
like,  ^  Out  of  his  mere  good  pleasure  from  all  etarnity,  I  s'pose. ' 
The  very  words  o'  the  cat'chism,  ye  see;  an'  she  never  goin' 
to  weekly  cat'chism  or  monthly  r'view!  An'  when  he  stopped  a 
minute  she  says,  all  'xcited  like,  ^  Now  I  call  tJiat  talk,  an'  it's 
the  very  fust  Fve  heerd  to-night.'  Then  he  took  a  book  out  of 
his  pocket.  'Twas  a  copy  of  the  old  New  England  Primer,  with 
whity-blue    covers   outside    an'  the    cat'chism    inside,    an'  he  says, 

*  Miss  Knapp,  p'raps  you  ain't  f 'miliar  with  this  little  book,  but  — ' 
She  ketched  it  right  outer  his  hand,  an'  the  tears  they  come 
right  up  inter  her  eyes,  an'  she  says  in  a  shaky  voice,  ^  I  don't 
think  I  ever  see  't  afore,  p'fessor,  but  it  'pears  to  be  the  West- 
minster Shorter.'  Then  she  jest  give  way  an'  cried  all  over  it 
till  'twas  soppin'.  An'  she  did  jest  hang  on  ter  his  words  when 
he  come  to  the  prob'ble  futur'  o'  most  folks,  an'  how  the  cat'- 
chism says  they're  *  under  His  wrath  an'  cuss,  an'  so  made  li'ble 
to  all  the  mis'ries  o'  this  life,  to  death  itself,  an'  the  pains  o' 
hell  f'rever. '  She  jest  kep'  time  to  them  words  with  her  head 
an'  her  hands  an'  her  feet,  's  if  'twas  an  old  toon  she'd  knowed 
all  her  born  days. 

"An'  so  'twas,  right  straight  through:  they  tried  her  on  every- 
thing, an'  'twas  alius  the  same  come-out;  she  picked  an'  kep'  all 
the  Knappses  had  alius  stood  to,  an'  throwed  away  what  the 
Knappses  'd  disliked.  She  'most  pitched  her  knittin',  ball  an' 
all,  at   the   Dem'cratic   newspaper  man;   an'  when   the   Connet'cut 


\ 


ANNIE   TRXTMBrrLL  SLOSSON  13 "^oi; 

Cour'nt  ed'tor  laid  down  the  Whig  platform,  she  called  out  loud: 
*I'm  on  that;  that's  my  pol'cy.  Who's  our  can'date  ?  ^  Poor 
Mr.  Gallagher,  he  didn't  make  out  to  c'mmunicate  with  her  's  he 
'xpected.  He  tried  her  on  a  Bible  story  in  signs,  but  a'ter  look- 
in'  at  him  a  minute  she  turned  away  an'  says:  *  Poor  creatur', 
can't  he  talk  any  ?  He  must  'a'  ben  cast  away  some  time,  I 
guess,  an'  'tis  sorter  dumb'in'  to  the  speech,  as  I  orter  know.  But 
he'll  pick  it  up  agin.^  An'  the  doctor  from  the  crazies,  an'  the 
p'fessor  from  Wash'n't'n  College,  they  tried  all  kinds  o'  brainy 
tricks  on  her;  but  her  head  was  's  sound  as  their  own,  and  made 
on  the  good  old  Knapp  patt'n.  An'  —  oh,  I  wish  you  could  'a' 
seen  how  foolish  Dr.  Barnes  looked  when  she  says  to  him,  a'ter 
he'd  opened  out  his  infiddle  b'liefs  or  unb'liefs,  says  she:  ^  Now 
you  jest  hush  up.  I  sh'd  think  you'd  be  ashamed,  a'ter  livin' 
here  in  a  Christian  land  'mong  Congr'ation'lists  all  your  days,  an' 
not  know  who  made  you,  an'  what  your  chief  eend  is,  an'  what 
the  Scriptur's  princ'p'ly  teach.  Even  I  knowed  that,^  she  says, 
*an'  me  in  a  heath'n  land  o*  graven  im'ges.^ 

"I'm  spinnin'  out  my  story  in  reel  Knappy  way, —  they're  a 
long-winded  lot, —  but  I'll  try  to  bind  off  now.  But  fust  I  must 
tell  ye  'bout  the  time  I  showed  Coretty  my  garden.  She'd  ben 
anxious  to  see  't;  said  she  lotted  on  flowers,  an'  had  drefflie  pretty 
ones  on  th'  island,  kinder  tropicky  an'  queer,  but  she  wanted  ter 
see  some  hum  ones.  So  I  took  her  out  an'  showed  her  my  beds 
'Twas  July,  an'  my  garden  was  like  a  rainbow  or  a  patchwork 
comf'ter, —  all  colors.  She  walked  round  an'  looked  at  the  roses 
an'  pinks  an'  all,  and  smelt  at  'em,  an'  seemed  pleased. 

"  *  But  somehow  I'm  kinder  dis'p'inted  too,*  she  says:  *I  d' 
know  why,  but  there's  suthin'  lackin'.*  I  jest  kep'  still,  an' 
kinder  led  her  'long  down  the  walk  to  the  corner  'hind  the  row 
o'  box,  an'  fust  she  knowed  she  was  standin'  by  the  bed  o'  but- 
tcrneggs.  She  stood  stock-still  a  minute;  then  she  held  up  both 
hands  an'  cried  out,   'Oh,  C'rinthians!  * 

"  'Twas  the  fust  time  she"d  ever  used  the  'xpression ;  there 
never  'd  ben  any  'casion  for  't,  for  she'd  had  sech  a  quiet  sorter 
life.  A'ter  that  she  was  alius  hangin'  round  that  bed  like  a  cat 
round  a  valerium  patch,  'tendin'  them  posies,  weedin'  'em,  wat'r- 
in',  tyin'  'em  up,  pickin'  'em,  wearin'  'em,  an'  keepin'  'em  in  hef 
room.  'Twas  a  dreffle  comfort  to  have  her  with  me;  but  'twa'n't 
to  last;  I  see  that  'most  's  soon  's  she  got  settled  down  with 
me.     She  b'gun  to  droop  an'  wilt  down,  an'  to  look  pindlin'  an'- 


^3506 


ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON 


lean-like,  an'  bleached  out.  I  tried  not  to  see  it,  an'  talked  's  if 
'twas  change  o'  air,  an'  givin'  up  her  r'tired  life,  an'  's  if  she'd 
soon  pick  up  an'  grow  to  a  good  old  Knapp  age.  But  when  she 
b'gun  to  c'mplain  o'  feelin'  creepy  an'  goose-fleshy  an'  shiv'ry,  to 
say  her  head  was  het  up.  an'  her  feet  'most  froze,  I  couldn't  shet 
my  eyes  to  't  no  longer;  I  knowed  the  sympt'ms  too  well:  it 
was  the  old  Knapp  enemy,  dumb  ager.  She  was  awful  young 
for  that;  not  forty  yit,  an'  the  Knappses  mostly  lived  to  eighty  or 
ninety.  But  I'll  tell  you  how  I  reasoned  't  out  to  myself.  The 
fam'ly  —  the  rest  on  'em  —  was  all  their' lives  takin'  in  gradjal- 
like  —  stronger  an'  stronger  's  they  could  bear  'em  —  the  Knapp 
b'liefs.  One  a'ter  t'other  they  got  'em,  like  teeth,  an'  so  they 
could  stand  it.  But  jest  think  on  't  a  minnit:  that  poor  dear 
gal  took  in  all  them  b'liefs  —  an'  strong  ones  they  was,  too, 
the  strongest  goin' — in  jest  a  few  days'  time.  Foreord 'nation, 
'lection,  etarnal  punishment,  the  Whig  platform,  Congr'ation'l  s'ci- 
ety  gov'ment.  United  States  language,  white-oak  cheese,  butter- 
neggs, — in  short,  the  hull  set  o'  Knapp  ways,  she  took  'em  all, 
's  you  might  say,  't  one  big  swaller.  No  wonder  they  disagreed 
with  her,  an'  left  her  nothin'  for  't  but  to  take  the  only  one  left 
't  she  hadn't  took  a'ready, —  the  Knapp  shakes! 

"I  didn't  say  nothin'  'bout  it  to  her;  I  never  spoke  o'  the 
fam'ly  trouble  't  all,  an'  I  knowed  she'd  never  heerd  on  't  in  her 
life.  She  kep'  up  an'  'bout  for  a  spell;  but  one  day  she  come  to 
see  me,  an'  she  says,  very  quiet  an'  carm,  ^  Loretty,  'f  ye '11  give 
me  the  sarcepan  I'll  jest  set  some  cam'mile  an'  hardback  to 
steep,  an'  put  a  strip  o'  red  flannel  round  my  neck  an'  go  to 
bed.*  My  heart  sunk  'way  down  's  I  heerd  her;  but  I  see  't 
she'd  left  out  some  o'  the  receipt,  so  I  hoped  'twa'n't  so  bad  's  I 
feared.  But  jest  's  she  was  goin'  inter  her  bedroom  she  turned 
round  an'  says,  *An'  mebbe  a  peppergrass  poult'ce  on  the  bottoms 
o'  my  feet  would  be  a  good  an'  drawin'  thing,*  she  says.  There 
was  a  lump  in  my  throat,  but  I  thinks  to  myself,  *■  Never  mind, 
'f  she  don't  'lude  to  the  piller.*  An'  I  was  pickin'  the  pepper- 
grass  an'  wond'rin'  if  'twas  the  smell  o'  that  't  made  my  eyes  so 
wet  an'  smarty,  when  she  calls  me  softly,  an'  she  says,  *  Sister, 
I'm  dreffle  sorry  to  trouble  ye,  but  'f  you  could  give  me  another 
piller, —  a  hard,  thin  one, —  I'd  be  'bleeged.*  Then  I  knowed 
'twas  all  over,  an'  I  never  had  a  grain  o'  hope  agin. 

"You'll  'xcuse  me,  ladies,  from  talkin'  much  more  'bout  that 
.  time.     I  think  on  't  'nough,  dear  knows;  I  dream  on  't,  an'  wake 


ANNIE   TRUMBULL   SLOSSON  13507 

with  my  piller  all  wet:  but  'tain't  good  for  me  to  say  too  much 
'bout  it.  She  wa'n't  sick  long:  her  dumb  ager  wa'n't  very 
chronic,  's  the  doctors  says,  but  sharp  an'  quick.  An'  jest  three 
weeks  from  the  day  she  come  home  to  me  she'd  added  one  more 
to  the  long  list  o'  things  she'd  had  to  lam  in  such  a  lim'ted 
per'od,  poor  gal,  an'  took  in  the  Knapp  way  o'  dyin'. 

^*An'  'twas  a  quiet  way,  peace'ble,  still-like,  not  makin'  no 
great  fuss  'bout  it,  but  ready  an'  willin'.  She  didn't  want  much 
waitin'  on,  only  fresh  posies  —  butterneggs  o'  course  —  in  the 
wineglass  on  the  stand  by  her  bed;  an'  ye  may  be  sure  she  alius 
had  'em  there.  An'  I  picked  all  I  had,  an'  stuck  'em  in  pitchers 
an'  mugs  an'  bowls,  an'  stood  'em  on  the  mantel-shelf,  an'  on  the 
chest  o'  drawers,  an'  any  place  't  would  hold  'em,  an'  the  room 
was  all  lit  up  with  'em  —  an'  with  her  hope  an'  faith  an'  patient 
ways  too;  an'  so  she  seemed  to  pass  right  through  a  shinin' 
yeller  path,  till  we  lost  sight  on  her  where  it  ended,  I  'a'n't  the 
leastest  doubt,  in  the  golden  streets  o'  heaven. 

<^  But  I  'xpect  to  see  her  agin  'fore  very  long.  There's  more 
o'  the  fam'ly  t'other  side  than  there  is  here  now,  an'  when  I 
think  o'  all  the  tribe  o'  Knappses  in  that  land  'cross  the  river,, 
why,  I  think  I'd  be  kinder  glad  to  go  there  myself:  'twould  be 
'most  like  goin'  to  Thanksgivin'  't  the  old  homestid.  An'  I  was 
sayin'  to  Marthy  Hustid  yist'day  —  she  looks  a'ter  me  now,  ye 
know  —  't  I  had  a  kinder  creepy,  goose-fleshy,  shiv'ry  feelin'  some- 
times, 't  my  head  was  all  het  up  an'  my  feet  'most  froze,  an'  I 
guessed  she  better  be  lookin'  at  the  yarb  bags  up  garr't,  an' 
layin'  in  a  little  red  flann'l,  in  case  o'  any  sickness  in  the  fam'ly. 
<An'  Marthy,  >  I  says,  U  s'pose  there's  a  harder  piller  in  the 
house  'n  the  one  I'm  usin', —  a  thin  one,  you  know.*  An'  I  am 
glad  the  butterneggs  is  comin'  in  season." 

As  we  came  away  from  the  little  brown  house  and  drove 
along  towards  Greenwich,  we  were  silent  for  a  little.  Then  I 
exclaimed:  "Jane  Benedict,  how  much  truth  is  there  in  that  wild 
tale  ?  Was  her  sister  shipwrecked,  and  did  she  appear  after  many 
days?  For  pity's  sake  enlighten  me,  for  my  head  is  ^^11  hot  up,' 
as  Aunt  Loretty  would  say !  '* 

«She  was  an  only  child,"  answered  Jane  calmly,  as  she 
touched  Billy  lightly  with  the  whip.  "  I  believe  her  father  was 
a  sailor,  and  was  lost  at  sea.  She  herself  lived  as  housekeeper 
for  many  years  with  Dr.  Lounsbury  of  Stamford,  who  wrote  that 
queer  book  on  heredity,— Hlcirship,'  I  think  he  called  it.  Per- 
haps she  imbibed  some  of  his  ideas.  >* 


13508 


JULIUS   SLOWACKl 

(1809- 1 849) 

I  HE  poetic  genius  of  Poland  put  forth  its  fairest  flower  in  the 
trefoil  of  Mickiewicz,  Krasinski,  and  Slowacki.  Strongly  con- 
trasted in  individuality,  the  three  were  united  by  their  love 
of  country;  in  their  lives  as  in  their  works  the  controlling  motive  is 
an  ardent  patriotism.  All  were  exiles  from  the  land  they  loved;  and 
their  works,  which  constitute  the  glory  of  Polish  literature,  were  writ- 
ten on  an  alien  soil.  They  all  strove  to  keep  alive  the  pride  of  their 
countrymen  in  Poland's  ancient  greatness;  but  in  Slowacki  a  certain 

temperamental  pessimism,  in  sharp  contrast 
to  the  national  optimism  of  his  brother 
poets,  held  his  patriotic  hopes  restrained. 
An  intense  love  of  freedom,  and  a  hatred  of 
the  regime  of  the  Czar,  glow  in  his  impas- 
sioned verse.  He  was  a  patriot  of  the 
people.  Krasinski,  allied  'with  the  highest 
families,  and  Mickiewicz,  the  favorite  of  the 
great,  were  patriots  of  a  more  aristocratic 
mold.  Upon  them  all  fell  the  mighty 
shadow  of  Byron ;  and  in  none  was  the 
Byronic  spirit  more  perfectly  reincarnated 
than  in  Slowacki.  He  surpassed  his  master; 
and  although  he  outgrew  this  influence,  and 
drew  loftier  inspiration  from  Shakespeare 
and  Calderon,  he  retained  to  the  end  the  traces  of  "  Satanic  '^  pessi- 
mism. In  a  rough  classification  of  the  members  of  this  brilliant  triad, 
Mickiewicz,  the  master  of  the  epic  and  lyric,  may  be  called  the  poet 
of  the  present;  Krasinski,  the  prophet  and  seer,  the  poet  through 
whom  the  future  spoke;  while  Slowacki,  the  dramatist,  was  the  pan- 
egyrist of  the  past. 

Julius  Slowacki  was  born  at  Krzemieniec  on  August  23d,  1809. 
His  father  was  a  professor  of  some  note  at  the  University  of  Vilna, 
where  the  lad  received  his  education.  His  mother  idolized  and 
spoiled  him,  sowing  the  seeds  of  that  supreme  self-love  which  became 
in  him  a  moral  malady.  From  the  first  he  had  the  conscious  resolve 
to  become  a  great  poet.  Upon  leaving  the  university  in  1828  he 
entered  the  uncongenial  service   of   the   State.      Two   years   later  he 


Julius   Slowacki 


JULIUS   SLOWACKI  1 35^9 

abandoned  his  post;  and  left  Poland  to  be  thenceforth . a  homeless 
wanderer.  During  the  period  of  his  official  bondage  in  Warsaw  he 
produced  his  early  Byronic  tales  in  verse:  *Hugo,*  a  romance  of 
the  Crusades,  <  Mnich  >  (The  Monk),  <  Jan  Bielecki,^  <  The  Arab,*  etc. 
They  are  distinguished  by  boldness  of  fancy  and  great  beauty  of 
diction;  but  their  gloomy  pessimistic  tone  ran  counter  to  the  prevail- 
ing taste  of  that  still  hopeful  time,  and  the  day  of  their  popularity 
was  deferred  until  renewed  misfortunes  had  chastened  the  public 
heart.  Two  dramas  belong  to  the  same  period, —  <Mindowe'  and 
<Mary  Stuart.  >  The  scene  of  the  former  is  laid  in  the  ancient  days 
before  Christianity  had  been  established  in  Lithuania;  the  latter  chal- 
lenges comparison  with  Schiller's  play,  and  surpasses  it  in  dramatic 
vigor.      It  is  still  a  favorite  in  the  repertoire  of  the  Polish  theatres. 

Slowacki  delighted  in  powerful  overmastering  natures:  it  was  the 
demonic  in  man  that  most  appealed  to  him ;  and  that  element  in 
his  own  nature  during  the  turbulent  days  of  1830  and  1831  burst 
forth  into  revolutionary  song.  His  fine  <  Ode  to  Freedom,*  the  fer- 
vid <Hymn  to  the  Mother  of  God,*  and  the  ringing  martial  spirit  of 
his  <Song  of  the  Lithuanian  Legion,*  stirred  all  hearts,  and  raised 
Slowacki  at  once  to  the  front  rank  among  the  poetic  exponents  of 
the  Polish  national  idea. 

When  in  1832  Slowacki  settled  in  Geneva,  a  new  period  in  his 
literary  career  began:  he  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  Byron,  and 
his  treatment  of  life  became  more  robust  and  earnest.  Unconsciously 
his  Kordjan  came  to  resemble  Conrad  in  the  third  part  of  Mickie- 
wicz's  *■  Dziady  *  (In  Honor  of  our  Ancestors^.  The  first  two  acts  of 
this  powerful  drama  are  still  somewhat  in  the  Byronic  manner,  but 
the  last  three  acts  are  among  the  finest  in  the  whole  range  of 
Polish  dramatic  literature.  The  theme  is  patriotic :  the  hero  plunges 
into  a  conspiracy  at  Warsaw  to  overthrow  the  Czar;  but  at  the  criti- 
cal moment  the  man  is  found  wanting,  and  because  he  puts  forth 
no  adequate  effort  he  miserably  fails.  This  dramatically  impressive 
but  morally  impotent  conclusion  reveals  the  ineradicable  pessimism 
of  the  poet's  mind.  Kordjan  is  of  that  irresolute  Slavic  type  which 
Sienkiewicz  has  so  mercilessly  analyzed  in  *  Without  Dogma.*  To 
this  same  period  of  Slowacki's  greatest  productivity  belong  the  two 
splendid  tragedies  ^  Mazcpa  *  and  ^Balladyna.*  In  <  Mazepa  *  is  all 
the  fresh  vigor  of  the  wind-swept  plains;  it  has  a  dramatic  quality 
that  reminds  of  Calderon,  and  maintains  itself  with  unabated  popu- 
larity upon  the  Polish  stage.  *■  Balladyna  *  is  the  most  original  of  all 
the  poet's  creations.  Shakespeare  superseded  Byron;  but  the  master 
now  inspired  and  no  longer  dominated.  <  Lilla  Weneda,*  of  later 
date,  was  the  second  part  of  an  unfinished  trilogy,  of  which  *■  Balla- 
dyna*   was   the   first:   the   design   of   the    whole   was   to   recreate   the 


X^eio  JULIUS    SLOWACKI 

mythical  traditions  of  Poland.  On  this  ancient  background  is  por- 
trayed the  conflict  of  two  peoples;  and  it  is  characteristic  of  the  poet 
that  he  allows  the  nobler  race  to  succumb  to  the  ruder. 

It  was  during  Slowacki's  Swiss  sojourn  also  that  he  wrote  one 
of  the  finest  lyric  gems  of  Polish  poetry,  ^In  Switzerland.^  In  it  he 
immortalized  the  Polish  maiden  who  for  too  short  a  time  ruled  his 
wayward  nature  in  a  brief  but  beautiful  dream  of  love.  In  Rome 
in  1836  he  met  Krasinski,  to  whose  lofty  inspiration  his  own  soul 
responded.  During  a  trip  in  the  Orient  he  wrote  his  deeply  pathetic 
poem  <  Ojciec  Zadzumionych  >  (The  Father  of  the  Plague-Stricken). 
Upon  this  doomed  man,  as  upon  Job,  is  heaped  misfortune  on  mis- 
fortune until  human  capacity  for  suffering  is  exhausted,  and  the  man 
becomes  a  stony  monument  of  misery.  There  is  an  overwhelming 
directness  of  presentation  in  this  poem  that  suggests  the  agony  of  the 
marble  Laocoon.     It  surpasses  Byron  at  his  best. 

In  1837  Slowacki  rejoined  Krasinski  in  Florence,  and  under  his  in- 
fl_uence  wrote  in  Biblical  style  the  allegory  of  <Anhelli.^  It  is  a  song 
of  sorrow  for  the  sufferings  of  Poland  and  her  exiled  patriots;  but  it 
loses  itself  at  last  in  the  marsh  of  mystic  Messianism  into  which  the 
masterful  but  vulgar  Towianski  lured  many  of  the  nobler  spirits  of 
Poland,  including  Mickiewicz.  Krasinski  resisted,  and  the  two  friends 
Were  separated.  Slowacki  and  his  greater  rival  were  stranded  on  the 
shoal  of  Towianism.  The  works  which  he  had  written  in  Switzer- 
land he  began  to  publish  in  Paris  in  1838;  but  <  Beniowski  >  was  the 
only  work  of  art  that  he  wrote  after  that  time.  This  is  a  lyric-epic 
of  self-criticism.  His  works  thenceforth  were  water-logged  with 
mysticism,  and  do  not  belong  to  the  domain  of  art.  In  <  Krol  Duch> 
(King  Mind)  this  madness  reaches  its  height.  Embittered  and  out  of 
touch  with  the  world,  he  died  in  Paris  on  April  3d,  1849. 

Slowacki  surpassed  all  his  contemporaries  in  the  magnificent 
flights  of  his  imagination,  and  in  the  glowing  richness  of  his  language 
and  imagery.  His  dramas  are  among  the  chief  ornaments  of  Polish 
literature;  and  his  beautiful  letters  to  his  mother  should  be  men- 
tioned as  perfect  gems  of  epistolary  style.  His  contempt  for  details 
of  form  and  composition  seems  sometimes  like  a  conscious  defiance 
of  the  recognized  requirements  of  art;  but  the  splendid  exuberance  of 
his  thought  and  fancy  ranks  him  among  the  great  poets  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  He  was  keenly  alive  to  the  faults  and  failings  of 
his  countrymen,  as  is  shown  in  his  <  Incorrigibles  > ;  but  in  the  temple 
of  Polish  fame  his  place  is  secure  at  the  left  of  Mickiewicz,  at  whose 
right  stands  Krasinski  with  the  <  Psalm  of  Sorrow  >  in  his  hand. 


JULIUS  SLOWACKI  13511 

FROM  <MINDOWE> 
In  <  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Poland.  >     Copyright  1881,  by  Paul  Soboleski 

[Mindowe,  king  of  Litwania,  having  embraced  the  Christian  religion,  his 
blind  mother  Ronelva  and  his  nephew  Troinace  conspire  to  effect  his  death, 
Mindowe  has  banished  Lawski,  the  prince  of  Nalzhaski,  and  essayed  to  win 
the  affections  of  his  wife.  Lawski,  not  having  been  heard  of  for  some  time, 
is  supposed' to  be  dead.  The  scene  opens  just  after  the  baptismal  rites  of  the 
monarch.] 

Scene :    The  royal  presence  chamber.     Enter  Casimir  and  Basil,  from  dif- 
ferent sides 


B 


AsiL  —  Saw  you  the  rites  to-day,  my  Casimir? 
Casimir — I  saw  what  may  I  never  see  again, — 
The  altars  of  our  ancient  faith  torn  down, 
Our  king  a  base  apostate,  groveling 
Beneath  a  — 
Basil  [interrupting  him]  —  Hold!  knowest  thou  not 

The  ancient  saw  that  "Palace  walls  have  ears*^? 
The  priests  throng  round  us  like  intruding  flies, 
And  latitude  of  speech  is  fatal. 
Casimir  —  True  — 

I  should  speak  cautiously.     But  hast  seen 
The  prince  ? 

Basil Who?     Troinace? 

Casimir—  The  same. 

Ha!  here  he  comes,  and  with  the  queen-mother; 
It  is  not  safe  to  parley  in  their  presence.     Hence 
Along  with  me:   I've  secrets  for  thine  ear. 

[Exit  Casimir  and  Basil. 

Ronelva   enters,   leaning    upon    the   arm   of  Troinace,   and  engaged  with 

him  in  conversation. 

Troinace — Thou  hast  a  son,  Ronelva,  crowned  a  king! 

Ronelva  —    Is  he  alive  ?  with  sight  my  memory  fails. 

Once  I  beheld  the  world,  but  now  'tis  dark  — 
My  soul  is  locked  in  sleep  —  O  God!  O  God! 
My  son!  hast  seen  my  royal  son  —  the  King, 
Thy  uncle,  Troinace  ?    How  is  he  arrayed  ? 

Troinace — In  regal  robes,  and  with  a  jeweled  cross 
Sparkling  upon  his  breast. 

Ronelva  —  A  cross !  —  what  cross  ? 

'Tis  not  a  symbol  of  his  sovereignty  — 


J35I2  JULIUS   SLOWACKI 

Troinace —  It  is  a  gift  made  by  his  new  ally. 
The  Pope. 

Ronelva —  The  Pope!  —  The  Pope!     I  know  none  such! 

Who  is  this  Pope!  —  Is 't  he  who  sends  new  gods 
To  old  Litwania?    Yes  —  I've  heard  of  him. 


A  pause.  Then  enter  Mindowe,  crowned,  and  arrayed  in  purple,  with  a 
diamond  cross  upon  his  breast,  and  accompanied  by  Heidenric,  the  Pope's 
legate.  Herman  precedes  them  bearing  a  golden  cross.  Lawski,  dis- 
guised as  a  Teutonic  Knight,  with  a  rose  upon  his  hehnet,  and  his  visor 
down,  bearing  a  casket.  Lutuver  attending  the  King.  Lawski  stands 
apart. 

Ronelva —    I  feel  that  kindred  blood  is  near,  Mindowe! 

Thy  mother  speaks !  approach !  ^He  approaches. 

Hast  thou  returned 
From  some  new  expedition .     Is  thy  brow 
Covered  with  laurels,  and  thy  stores 
Replete  with  plunder  ?     Do  I  hear  the  shouts, 
Th'  applause  of  the  Litwanians,  hailing  thee 
As  conqueror  ?     Returnest  thou  from  Zmudie, 
From  Dwina's  shores  triumphant  ?     Has  the  Russian  Bear 
Trembled  before  thy  sword  ?     Does  Halicz  fear 
Thy  angry  frown  ?     Speak !   with  a  mother's  tears 
I  '11  hail  the  conqueror. 

Mindotve —  My  mother!  why 

These  tones  arjd., words  sarcastic?     Knowest  thou  not 
That  victory  perches  on  another's  helm  ? 
I  am  at  peace,   and  am  —  a  Christian  king. 

Ronelva —    Foul  shame  on  thee,  blasphemer!     Hast  thou  fallen 
As  low  as  this  ?     Where  is  thy  bold  ambition  ? 
To  what  base  use  hast  placed  thy  ancient  fame  ? 
Is 't  cast  aside  like  to  some  foolish  toy 
No  longer  worth  the  hoarding  ?     Shame  upon 
Thy  craven  spirit!     Canst  thou  live  without 
That  glorious  food,  which  e'en  a  peasant  craves, 
Holding  it  worthless  as  thy  mother's  love. 
And  thy  brave  father's  faith  ? 

Mindowe —  Nay,  mother,  nay! 

Dismiss  these  foolish  fancies  from  thy  brain. 
Behold!   my  jeweled  brow  is  bent  before  thee. 
Oh,  bless  thy  son! 

Ronelva —  Thou  vile  apostate!     Thou 

Dare  ask  for  approbation  ?     Thou  !  —  I  curse  thee ! 


JULIUS   SLOWACKI  135 1 3 

Sorrow  and  hate  pursue  thy  faltering  steps. 

Still  may  thy  foes  prove  victors;  subjects  false; 

Thy  drink  be  venom,  and  thy  joy  be  woe. 

Thy  mind  filled  with  remorse,  still  mayst  thou  live, 

Seeking  for  death,  but  wooing  it  in  vain, — 

A  foul,  detested,  blasted  renegade. 

I  have  bestowed  to  earth  a  viper;  but 
■  From  thee  shall  vipers  spring,  who  like  their  sire 

Shall  traitors  be  unto  their  native  land, 

And  eager  plunge  them  into  ruin's  stream! 

Depart !   and  bear  thy  mother's  curse ! 
Mindowe  —  Mother, 

My  mother  — 
Ronelva —  Call  me  not  mother,  viper! 

I  do  disclaim  thee;  —  thee -^ and  all  thy  seed! 

yExit  Ronelva,  leaning  on   Troinace. 

Mindowe  {speaking  as  though  awe-stricken}  — 
Heard  ye  that  curse  ? 

Heidenric —  What  are  the  frantic  words 

Of  a  revengeful  woman  ?    Empty  air  — 

Mindowe — A  mother's  curse!     It  carries  pestilence. 
Blight,  misery,  and  sorrow  in  its  train. 
No  matter!     It  is,  as  the  legate  says, 
But  "  empty   air.  ^^ 
[  To  Heidenric}  —       What  message  do  you  bear  ? 

Heidenric  —  Thus  to  the  great  Litwanian  king,  Pope  Innocent 

(Fourth  of  the  name  who've  worn  the  papal  crown) 

Sends  greeting:.  Thou  whose  power  extends 

From  farthest  Baltic  to  the  shores  of  Crim, 

Go  on  and  prosper.     Though  unto  thy  creed 

He  thinks  thy  heart  is  true,  still  would  he  prove  — 

[Mindowe  starts,  and  exclaims  ^^HaJ^^] 

Send  thou  to  him  as  neighboring  monarchs  do 
An  annual  tribute.     So  he'll  bless  thy  arms 
That  ere  another  year  elapses  Russ'  shall  yield, 
And  Halicz  fall  before  thy  conquering  sword. 
MindoT.ve — Thanks  to  the  Pope.     I'll  profit  by  his  leave: 
I'll  throw  my  troops  in  Muscovy,  and  scourge 
The  hordes  of  Halicz,  move  in  every  place 
Like  an  avenging  brand,  and  say  —  The  Pope 
Hath  given  me  power.     But,  hark  ye!   legate, 
What  needs  so  great  a  priest  as  he  of  Rome 


J-CI4  JULIUS  SLOWACKI 

With  my  red  gold  to  buy  him  corn  and  oil  ? 

Explain !     I  do  not  understand  the  riddle. 
Heidenric — He  merely  asks  it  as  a  pledge  of  friendship. 

But  nothing  more.     The  proudest  kings  of  Europe 

Yield  him  such  tribute. 
Mindowe —  Tribute!  —  base  priest! 

Whene'er  thy  nlaster  asks  for  tribute,  this  — 

{Striking  his  sword.A^ 

Is  my  reply.     What  hast  thou  there  ? 
Heidenric —  A  gift  — 

A  precious  relic  of  most  potent  virtue. 
Thou'st  heard  of  St.  Sebastian  ?  holy  man  ! 
He  died  a  martyr.     This  which  brought  him  death 
Is  sent  unto  thee  by  his  Holiness  — 

{Presents  a  rusty  spear-head.^ 

Mindcnve — Fie  on  such  relics!     I  could  give  thy  Pope 
A  thousand  such !     This  dagger  by  my  side 
Had  hung  from  childhood.     It  has  drunk  the  blood 
Of  many  a  foe  that  vexed  my  wrath ;   and  oft 
Among  them  there  were  men,  and  holy  men, 
As  holy,  sir,  as  e'er  was  St.  Sebastian. 

Heidenric  —  Peace,  thou  blasphemer! 

Mindowe  \angrily\ —  How!  dost  thou  wish  thy  head 

To  stand  in  safety  on  thy  shoulders? 
What  means  this  insolence,  sir  legate  ? 
Think'st  thou  that  I  shall  kneel,  and  bow,  and  fawn, 
And  put  thy  master's  iron  yoke  upon  me  ? 
They  act  not  freely  whom  the  fetters  bind. 
And  none  shall  forge  such  galling  chains  for  me! 
There's  not  one  more  Mindowe  in  the  world, 
Nor  is  your  Pope  a  crowned  Litwanian  king. 

Heidenric — I  speak  but  as  the  representative 

Of  power  supreme  o'er  earthly  monarchs. 

Mindowe— 'Y:\\oVi  doest  well  to  shelter  thus  thyself 
Under  the  shield  of  thy  legation.     Hast 
Aught  more  to  utter  of  thy  master's  words, 
Aught  more-  to  give  ? 

Heidenric —  I  have  a  gift  to  make 

Unto  thy  queen. 

Mindowe —  The  queen  hath  lain,  sir  prince. 

In  cold  corruption  for  a  twelvemonth  back. 
What  means  this  mockery? 


JULIUS  SLOWACKI  135  1 5 

Heidenric—  Pardon,  my  lord! 

It  was  not  known  unto  his  Holiness. 

The  forests  of  Litwania  are  so  dark 

They  shut  her  doings  from  her  neighbor's  keti. 

If  then  the  queen  be  dead,  who  shall  receive 

This  goodly  gift  ? 
Mindowe —  My  mother  — 

Heidenric—  If  I  may  judge 

By  what  I  heard  e'en  now,  she'd  not  accept 

Our  offering. 
Mindowe —  Then  give  the  gorgeous  gaw 

To  Lawski's  widow  —  she  who  soon  will  be 

My  crowned  queen.     Summon  her  hither,  page. 

\Exit  Page. 

Attendants,  take  from  hence  these  costly  gifts. 

And  give  them  in  the  royal  treasurer's  care. — 

\Exit  Attendants, 

Enter  Aldona 

Here  comes  my  spotless  pearl,  the  fair  Aldona, 
The  choicest  flower  of  the  Litwanian  vales. 
Address  thy  speech  to  her. 

Heidenric —  Beauteous  maid. 

Accept  these  golden  flowers  from  Tiber's  banks, 
Where  they  have  grown,  nursed  by  the  beams  of  faith. 
Nor  deem  them  less  in  value  that  they  are 
By  the  brighter  lustre  of  thine  eyes  eclipsed. 

Aldona —     These  costly  jewels  and  the  glare  of  gold, 
Albeit  they  suit  not  my  mourning  weeds. 
May  serve  as  dying  ornaments.     As  such 
I  will  accept  them. 

Heidenric  [aside]—  Ay!  I  warrant  me. 

Like  to  most  women,  she  accepts  the  gift, 
Nor  farther  questions.     Gold  is  always — go/d. 

[Motions  to  Lawski  to  approach  Aldona.     He  does  so,  tremblingly. '\ 

Mindowe  [to  Laivski]  — 

Thou  tremblest,  Teuton! 

[Lawski  raises  his  visor  as  he  approaches  Aldona.     She  recognizes  his  feat' 
ures.  shrieks,  and  falls.     Exit  Lawski .\ 

Mindowe —  Help  there  —  she  swoons! 

Without  there  1 


135  1 6  JULIUS  SLOWACKI 

Enter  Attendants 

Mindowe —  Bear  her  hence.     Pursue  that  knight. 

YExit  Attendants  with  Aldona. 

[To  Heidenric\  —  What  means  this  mystery? 
Heidenric —  I  know  not,  sire. 

He  said  that  he  had  vowed  whilst  in  our  train 

For  certain  time  to  keep  his  visor  down. 

He's  taciturn.     This  with  his  saddened  air, 

Together  with  the  rose  upon  his  helm, 

The  emblem  of  the  factious  house  of  York, 

Bespeaks  him  English  —  to  my  thought,  at  least. 
Mindowe —  Think  ye  such  poor  devices  can  deceive  ? 

He  is  a  spy  —  a  base,  deceitful  spy. 

Begone !  for  by  my  father's  sepulchre 

I  see  a  dagger  in  my  path.     Begone ! 

[Exit  Heidenric  and  Herman. 

Approach,  Lutuver,     Didst  thou  see  that  knight 

Who  left  so  suddenly  ? 
Lutuver —  I  did  so,  sire, 

But  'f  all  the  group  I  least  suspected  him 

Of  treasonable  practices.     He's  silent, 

For  no  one  understands  his  language  here; 

He  keeps  aloof  from  men,  because  he's  sad; 

He's  sad,  because  he's  poor:  so  ends  that  knight. 
Mindowe  [not  heedi?tg  him]  — 

I  tell  thee  that  my  very  soul's  pulse  throbbed, 

And  my  heart  cast  with  quicker  flow  my  blood. 

When  that  young  knight  approached  Aldona.      [Muses.] 

Now,  by  the  gods,  I  do  believe  'tis  he  — 

The  banished  Lawski  —  here  to  dog  my  steps: 

What  thinkest  thou,  Lutuver.? 
Lutuver —  Slay  him,  sire! 

If  it  be  he,  he's  taken  from  my  path; 

If  not  —  to  slay  a  Teuton  is  no  crime. 
Mindowe —  Thou  counselest  zealously.     But  still,  thy  words 

Fall  not  upon  an  ear  which  thinks  them  good. 

I  tell  thee  that  this  Lawski  is  my  bane, 

A  living  poison  rankling  'fore  mine  eyes. 
Men  prate  about  the  virtues  of  the  man: 

And  if  a  timorous  leaning  to  the  right. 

From  fear  to  follow  where  the  wrong  directs, 

Be  virtue,  then  is  he  a  paragon. 

No  wonder  we  are  deadly  foes.     To  me 


JULIUS   SLOWACKI  1351? 

The  brightness  which  is  shed  o'er  all  his  deeds, 
When  placed  in  contact  with  my  smothered  hate, 
Seems  as  the  splendor  of  the  noonday  sun 
Glancing  upon  some  idol's  horrid  form, 
Making  its  rude  appearance  ruder  still. 

One  word  of  mine,  Lutuver,  might  destroy 
This  abject  snail,  who  crawling  near  my  hope 
Hath  scared  it  off.     But  I  would  have  him  live, 
And  when  he  meets  his  adorable  wife, — 
When  in  th'  excess  of  'raptured  happiness 
Each  fibre  fills  with  plenitude  of  joy. 
And  naught  of  bliss  is  left  to  hope  for, —  then 
At  fair  Aldona's  feet  shall  he  expire. 
And  the  full  heart  just  beating  'gainst  her  own 
Shall  yield  its  living  current  for  revenge. 
And  she  —  his  wife  —  to  whom  I  knelt  in  vain, 
Who  oft  has  said  she  courted  my  dislike. 
And  wished  I'd  hate  her, —  she  shall  have  her  wish. 

[Exeunt  Mindowe  and  Lutuver,  as  the  curtain  falls. 


I   AM    SO   SAD,  O   GOD! 
From  <  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Poland.*     Copyright  1881,  by  Paul  Soboleski 

I   AM  so  sad,  O  God!     Thou  hast  before  me 
Spread  a  bright  rainbow  in  the  western  skies, 
But  thou  hast  quenched  in  darkness  cold  and  stormy 
The  brighter  stars  that  rise; 
Clear  grows  the  heaven  'neath  thy  transforming  rod: 
Still  I  am  sad,  O  God! 

Like  empty  ears  of  grain,  with  heads  erected. 

Have  I  delighted  stood  amid  the  crowd. 
My  face  the  while  to  stranger  eyes  reflected 

The  calm  of  summer's  cloud: 
But  thou  dost  know  the  ways  that  I  have  trod, 

And  why  I  grieve,  O  God! 

I  am  like  to  a  weary  infant  fretting 

Whene'er  its  mother  leaves  it  for  a  while: 
And  grieving  watch  the  sun,  whose  light  in  setting 

Throws  back  a  parting  smile; 
Though  it  will  bathe  anew  the  morning  sod, 

Still  I  am  sad,  O  God! 


135 1 8  JULIUS  SLOWACKI 

To-day  o'er  the  wide  waste  of  ocean  sweeping, 
Hundreds  of  miles  away  from  shore  or  rock, 
I  saw  the  cranes  fly  on,  together  keeping 

In  one  unbroken  flock; 
Their  feet  with  soil  from  Poland's  hills  were  shod, 
And  I  was  sad,  O  God! 

Often  by  strangers'  tombs  I've  lingered  weary, 
Since,  grown  a  stranger  to  my  native  ways, 
I  walk  a  pilgrim  through  a  desert  dreary. 

Lit  but  by  lightning's  blaze. 
Knowing  not  where  shall  fall  the  burial  clod 
Upon  my  bier,  O  God! 

Some  time  hereafter  will  my  bones  lie  whitened, 

Somewhere  on  strangers'  soil,  I  know  not  where: 
I  envy  those  whose  dying  hours  are  lightened. 

Fanned  by  their  native  air; 
But  flowers  of  some  strange  land  will  spring  and  nod 

Above  my  grave,  O  God! 

When,  but  a  guileless  child  at  home,  they  bade  me 

To  pray  each  day  for  home  restored,  I  found 
My  bark  was  steering  —  how  the  thought  dismayed  me- 

The  whole  wide  world  around! 
Those  prayers  unanswered,  wearily  I  plod 

Through  rugged  ways,  O  God! 

Upon  the  rainbow,  whose  resplendent  rafter 

Thy  angels  rear  above  us  in  the  sky. 
Others  will  look  a  hundred  years  hereafter, 

And  pass  away  as  I; 
Exiled  and  hopeless  'neath  thy  chastening  rod. 
And  sad  as  I,  O  God! 


13519 


ADAM  SMITH 

(1723-1790) 

BY   RICHARD   T.  ELY 

10  SPEAK  of  Adam  Smith  as  the  author  of  <  The  Wealth  of 
Nations  ^  brings  before  us  at  once  his  chief  claim  to  a 
place  among  the  immortals  in  literature.  The  significance 
of  this  work  is  so  overwhelming  that  it  casts  into  a  dark  shadow  all 
that  he  wrote  in  addition  to  this  masterpiece.  His  other  writings  are 
chiefly  valued  in  so  far  as  they  may  throw  additional  light  upon  the 
doctrines  of  this  one  book.  Few  books  in 
the  world's  history  have  exerted  a  greater 
influence  on  the  course  of  human  affairs; 
and  on  account  of  this  one  work,  Adam 
Smith's  name  is  familiar  to  all  well-educated 
persons  in  every  civilized  land. 

Rarely  does  a  man  occupy  so  prominent 
a  position  in  human  thought,  whose  person- 
ality is  so  vague  and  elusive.  He  is  gen- 
erally so  described  that  the  impression  is 
produced  of  a  dull  and  uninteresting  man. 
Quite  the  opposite  must  have  been  the 
case,  however ;  for  even  the  few  incidents 
recorded  of  his  life  are  sufficient  to  show 
us,  when  we  think   about  it,   that   he   must 

have  been  a  delightful  friend  and  companion.  Adam  Smith  is  gener- 
ally associated  in  the  popular  mind  with  weighty  disquisitions  on  free 
trade,  on  labor,  on  value,  and  other  economic  topics;  but  his  life  was 
by  no  means  devoid  of  romantic  touches. 

Adam  Smith  was  born  of  respectable  parents  — his  father  being 
a  well-connected  lawyer  — at  Kirkcaldy,  Scotland,  on  June  5th,  1723. 
His  father  had  died  three  months  before  his  birth ;  but  he  was 
brought  up  and  well  educated  by  his  mother,  to  whom  he  was  most 
devotedly  attached.  It  is  said,  indeed,  that  he  never  recovered  from 
his  mother's  death,  which  took  place  when  he  was  sixty  years  of  age. 
After  attending  a  school  in  his  native  town,  he  was  sent  to  the 
University  of  Glasgow  at  the  age  of  fourteen;  and  three  years  later, 
obtaining  an  "exhibition,"  —  or.  as  we  say  in  the  United  States,  a 
scholarship,— he  went  to  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  where  he  remained 


Adam    Smith 


1^520  ADAM   SMITH 

for  more  than  six  years.  In  1748  he  moved  to  Edinburgh,  and  deliv- 
ered public  lectures  on  rhetoric  and  belles-lettres.  Three  years  later 
he  was  appointed  professor  of  logic  in  Glasgow  University,  and  four 
years  later  he  exchanged  his  professorship  for  that  of  moral  philoso- 
phy. In  1763  he  resigned  his  professorship,  and  traveled  for  three 
years  on  the  Continent  of  Europe  as  tutor  to  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch. 
From  1766  to  1776  he  lived  in  retirement,  engaged  in  the  prepara- 
tion of  his  great  work,  ^  The  Wealth  of  Nations,^  which  appeared  in 
the  latter  year  and  very  soon  made  him  famous.  During  the  years 
1776  to  1778  he  lived  in  London,  mingling  with  the  best  literary 
society  of  the  time.  The  year  last  named  witnessed  his  return  to 
his  native  Scotland,  where  he  chose  Edinburgh  as  his  home  for  the 
rest  of  his  life.  Three  years  before  his  death,  which  occurred  in 
1790,  he  was  elected  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow,  and 
was  highly  gratified  by  the  honor  conferred  upon  him. 

Adam  Smith  was  a  bachelor;  but  we  are  told  by  Dugald  Stewart, 
his  biographer,  that  he  had  once  been  warmly  attached  to  a  beautiful 
and  accomplished  young  lady.  It  is  not  known  why  it  was  that  their 
union  was  never  consummated:  neither  one  ever  married.  Dugald 
Stewart  saw  the  lady  after  the  death  of  Adam  Smith,  when  she  was 
upwards  of  eighty ;  and  he  stated  that  she  "  still  retained  evident 
traces  of  her  former  beauty.  The  power  of  her  understanding  and 
the  gayety  of  her  temper  seemed  to  have  suffered  nothing  from  the 
hand  of  time.'* 

Adam  Smith  was  not  a  voluminous  writer,  and  some  of  the  MSS. 
which  he  did  compose  were  destroyed  by  his  order.  His  works,  how- 
ever, show  ,a  wide  range  of  thought  and  study.  One  brief  treatise  of 
some  note  is  entitled  <A  Dissertation  on  the  Origin  of  Languages.* 
Three  essays  deal  with  the  <  Principles  which  Lead  and  Direct  Philo- 
sophical Inquiries  as  Illustrated  ^  —  first,  by  the  ^  History  of  Ancient 
Astronomy ' ;  second,  by  the  ^  History  of  Ancient  Physics ' ;  third,  by 
*  Ancient  Logic  and  Metaphysics.^  Other  essays  are  on  *  The  Imi- 
tative Arts*;  <  Music,'  ^  Dancing,  >  ^Poetry';  <  The  External  Senses*; 
'English  and  Italian  Verses.' 

A  few  words  must  be  devoted  to  the  <  Theory  of  Moral  Senti- 
ments* before  hastening  on  to  the  *  Wealth  of  Nations.*  The  former 
is  an  ambitious  work,  and  one  which  in  itself  has  considerable  merit. 
Moreover,  it  is  significant  because  it  is  part  of  a  large  treatise  on 
moral  philosophy  which  Smith  planned.  This  treatise  was  to  have 
embraced  four  parts:  first,  ^Natural  Theology*;  second,  <  Ethics*; 
third,  ^Jurisprudence*;  fourth,  <  Police,  Revenue,  and  Arms.*  The  sec- 
ond part  is  <  The  Moral  Sentiments*;  and  in  the  ^Wealth  of  Nations* 
he  presented  the  fourth  part,  as  he  himself  tells  us.  Unfortunately, 
he  has  not  given  the  world  the  first  and  third  parts,  which  however 


ADAM   SMITH  135  2 1 

were  embraced  in  his  lectures  to  his  students  while  he  was  professor 
of  moral  philosophy  in  the  University  of  Glasgow. 

The  <  Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments,^  it  has  been  maintained,  would 
have  achieved  renown  for  its  author,  and  a  place  for  him  in  liter- 
ature, had  it  been  presented  to  the  world  simply  as  a  collection  of 
essays  on  the  topics  with  which  it  deals;  viz.,  the  ^Propriety  and 
Impropriety  of  Actions,*  their  ^  Merit  and  Demerit,*  *  Virtue,'  *  Just- 
ice,* <Duty,*  etc.  The  essays  are  finely  written,  full  of  subtle  analy- 
sis and  truthful  illustration.  The  book  is  least  significant,  however, 
as  philosophy ;  because  it  lacks  any  profound  examination  of  the 
foundation  upon  which  the  author's  views  rest. 

The  guiding  principle  of  the  *  Moral  Sentiments  *  is  sympathy, 
or  fellow  feeling;  not  merely  pity  or  compassion,  but  feeling  with 
our  fellows  in  their  joys  as  well  as  sorrows.  This  sympathy  is 
distinguished  from  selfrlove,  and  it  is  described  as  something  given 
to  man  by  nature.  This  idea  is  brought  out  by  the  opening  words, 
which  are  these :  "  How  selfish  soever  man  may  be  supposed,  there 
is  evidently  some  principle  in  his  nature  which  interests  him  in 
the  fortune  of  others,  and  renders  their  happiness  necessary  to  him ; 
though  he  derives  nothing  from  it  except  the  pleasure  of  seeing  it.'* 

The  full  title  of  Adam  Smith's  great  work,  ordinarily  given  as 
simply  the  ^  Wealth  of  Nations,  *  is  ^An  Inquiry  into  the  Nature  and 
Causes  of  the  Wealth  of  Nations.*  The  date  of  the  appearance  of 
this  book  —  viz.,  1776— is  a  significant  one,  for  it  recalls  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence.  Both  of  them  were  the  outcome  of  the  same 
political  and  social  philosophy ;  both  of  them  were  protests  against 
ancient  wrongs  and  abuses. 

The  ^  Wealth  of  Nations  *  appeared  when  the  industrial  revolution 
was  fairly  under  way ;  inventions  and  discoveries  had  begun  their 
transformation  of  industrial  society.  Old  forms  and  methods  were  no 
longer  sufficient  for  the  growing,  expanding  life  of  this  *^  springtime 
of  the  nations  '* ;  these  springtimes  of  the  nations  recur  at  intervals, 
and  a  great  deal  of  rubbish  has  to  be  cleared  away  to  make  room  for 
new  life.  Adam  Smith's  work  was  largely  negative.  One  biographer 
of  him,  Mr.  R.  B.  Haldane,  speaks  of  him  as  "one  of  the  greatest 
vanquishers  of  error  on  record.**  He  regarded  himself  as  the  advo- 
cate of  a  system  of  natural  liberty :  <*  nature  '*  and  '*  liberty  **  are  two 
perpetually  recurring  words;  they  must  be  associated,  to  understand 
the  economic  philosophy  of  the  ^Wealth  of  Nations.*  One  of  the 
assumptions  underlying  this  book  is  that  of  a  beneficent  order  of 
nature  lying  back  of  all  human  institutions.  The  cry  of  the  age  was 
<<back  to  nature."  Rousseau  gave  loud  utterance  to  this  watchword, 
and  it  was  echoed  and  re-echoed  by  the  writers  and  thinkers  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  both   great  and  small.     Nature,  it  was  held. 


12522  ADAM  SMITH 

has  done  all  things  well ;  everything  proceeding  from  the  hands  of 
nature  is  good:  what  is  evil  in  the  world  is  man's  artificial  product: 
before  man  interfered  with  nature  there  was  the  <*  golden  age,^*  and 
to  this  *< golden  age*  we  must  somehow  get  back.  We  must  break 
away  from  human  contrivances,  and  seek  for  the  order  prescribed 
by  nature.  Consequently  we  have  perpetually  recurring  demand  for 
natural  rights,  natural  liberty,  natural  law. 

Nature  has  implanted  in  man  self-interest,  and  the  operation  of 
self-interest  in  the  individual  man  is  socially  beneficent.  Nature  has 
so  ordered  things  that  each  man  in  seeking  his  own  welfare  will 
best  promote  the  welfare  of  his  fellows.  We  must  simply  leave 
nature  alone,  and  give  fair  play  to  natural  forces  to  bring  about  the 
largest  production  of  wealth.  The  causes  of  the  wealth  of  nations 
must  be  sought  in  the  manifold  actions  of  self-interest  of  individu- 
als. The  'Wealth  of  Nations,^  then,  is  a  protest  against  restraints 
and  restrictions;  it  is  directed  against  what  was  held  to  be  the  over- 
government,  but  what  subsequent  history  has  shown  to  be  rather 
the  unwise  and  imjust  government,  of  that  period.  Careful  exam- 
ination of  modern  nations,  especially  as  revealed  in  their  financial 
expenditures,  shows  that  as  modern  nations  have  progressed,  the  act- 
ivities of  government  have  undergone  immense  expansion,  but  have 
changed  their  direction  and  have  altered  their  methods;  their  spirit 
and  purpose  are  different. 

The  abuses  against  which  Adam  Smith  chiefly  protested  were 
restrictions  upon  the  freedom  of  trade,  and  the  exclu.sive  privileges 
of  ancient  guilds  and  corporations,  and  laws  directed  against  labor. 
He  was  in  principle  a  free-trader.  His  anti-monopoly  views,  however, 
are  equally  pronounced. 

Tt  is  important  to  notice  one  thing  in  connection  with  Adam 
Smith's  protest  against  labor  laws;  and  that  is,  that  he  had  in  mind 
laws  aimed  to  control  labor  in  the  interest  of  the  employer,  and  not 
laws  like  our  modern  labor  laws,  the  purpose  of  which  is  to  protect 
and  advance  the  interests  of  labor.  He  said,  indeed,  in  one  place, 
that  if  any  labor  law  should  chance  to  be  in  the  interest  of  labor,  it 
was  sure  to  be  a  just  law.  This  ought  not  to  be  forgotten  in  com- 
paring his  spirit  with  that  of  modern  writers  who  protest  against 
labor  legislation.  He  was  warmly  humanitarian,  and  his  ruling  pas- 
sion was  to  benefit  mankind.  On  his  death-bed  he  expressed  regret 
that  he  had  been  able  to  do  so  little. 

Adam  Smith  was  far  from  being  a  mere  doctrinaire.  He  had  the 
practical  disposition  of  the  Scotchman,  and  was  a  close  observer  of 
life.  Common-sense,  then,  was  one  of  his  chief  characteristics:  and 
he  never  hesitated  to  make  exceptions  to  general  principles  when  this 
was  required  by  concrete   conditions.     Free   trade,  for   example,  was 


ADAM  SMITH  13523 

a  good  thing;  but  he  at  once  recognized  that  changes  in  tariff  poli- 
cies must  be  made  with  due  regard  to  existing  interests  which  had 
grown  up  under  a  diflferent  policy.  Private  action  in  the  sphere  of 
education  was  in  accord  with  his  philosophy;  yet  he  could  say  that 
under  certain  circumstances  it  might  be  wise  for  the  government  to 
foster  education,   especially  in  a  country  with  democratic  institutions. 

Even  in  so  brief  a  sketch  as  this,  a  word  must  be  said  about 
Adam  Smith's  position  with  respect  to  labor.  He  opens  the  *■  Wealth 
of  Nations  ^  with  the  statement  that  "  The  annual  labor  of  every 
nation  is  the  fund  which  originally  supplies  it  with  all  the  necessa- 
ries and  conveniences  of  life  which  it  annually  consumes.  *>  One  school 
of  writers,  the  Mercantilists,  had  held  that  the  main  thing  in  the 
advancement  of  the  wealth  of  nations  was  foreign  trade.  A  later 
school,  valued  highly  by  Smith, —  viz.,  the  Physiocrats, —  had  main- 
tained that  in  the  rent  of  land  must  be  sought  the  causes  of  the 
increase  of  wealth.  It  is  doubtless  as  a  protest  against  both  these 
schools  that  Adam  Smith  states  that  the  original  fund  of  w'ealth  is 
labor.  He  wants  to  make  labor  central  and  pivotal.  Rodbertus,  the 
German  socialist,  has  claimed  that  his  socialism  consists  simply  in  an 
elaboration  of  Adam  Smith's  doctrine  of  labor;  but  this  is  undoubt- 
edly going  too  far. 

All  the  economists  before  the  time  of  Adam  Smith  must  be  re- 
garded as  his  predecessors;  all  the  economists  who  have  lived  since 
Adam  Smith  have  carried  on  his  work :  and  his  position  in  econom- 
ics is  therefore  somewhat  like  that  of  Darwin  in  natural  science.  There 
are  many  schools  among  modern  economists,  but  their  work  all  stands 
in  some  relation  to  that  large  work  of  this  "old  master." 

The  centenary  of  Adam  Smith's  <  Wealth  of  Nations^  was  cele- 
brated in  1876;  and  it  was  at  that  time  stated  that  no  other  work 
had  enjoyed  the  honor  of  a  centennial  commemoration.  Statesmen  in 
all  nations  have  been  influenced  by  it.  Buckle,  with  his  customary 
exaggeration,  makes  this  statement:  "Well  may  it  be  said  of  Adam 
Smith,  and  that  too  without  fear  of  contradiction,  that  this  solitary 
Scotchman  has,  by  the  publication  of  one  single  work,  contributed 
more  to  the  happiness  of  man  than  has  been  effected  by  the  united 
abilities  of  all  the  statesmen  and  legislators  of  whom  history  has  pre- 
sented an  authentic  account."  Even  the  more  careful  Bagehot  used 
these  words:  "The  life  of  nearly  every  one  in  England  —  perhaps  of 
every  one  —  is  different  and  better  in  consequence  of  it.  No  other 
form  of  political  philosophy  has  ever  had  one  thousandth  part  of  the 
influence  on  us." 


P^ 


13524  ADAM   SMITH 

THE   PRUDENT   MAN 
From  the  <  Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments  > 

THE  prudent  man  always  studies  seriously  and  earnestly  to 
understand  whatever  he  professes  to  understand,  and  not 
merely  to  persuade  other  people  that  he  understands  it; 
and  though  his  talents  may  not  always  be  very  brilliant,  they  are 
always  perfectly  genuine.  He  neither  endeavors  to  impose  upon 
you  by  the  cunning  devices  of  an  artful  impostor,  nor  by  the 
arrogant  airs  of  an  assuming  pedant,  nor  by  the  confident  asser- 
tions of  a  superficial  and  impudent  pretender:  he  is  not  osten- 
tatious even  of  the  abilities  which  he  really  possesses.  His 
conversation  is  simple  and  modest;  and  he  is  averse  to  all  the 
quackish  arts  by  which  other  people  so  frequently  thrust  them- 
selves into  public  notice  and  reputation.  For  reputation  in  his 
profession  he  is  naturally  disposed  to  rely  a  good  deal  u^on  the 
solidity  of  his  knowledge  and  abilities:  and  he  does  not  always 
think  of  cultivating  the  favor  of  those  little  clubs  and  cabals, 
who,  in  the  superior  arts  and  sciences,  so  often  erect  themselves 
into  the  supreme  judges  of  merit;  and  who  make  it  their  busi- 
ness to  celebrate  the  talents  and  virtues  of  one  another,  and  to 
decry  whatever  can  come  into  competition  with  them.  If  he  ever 
connects  himself  with  any  society  of  this  kind,  it  is  merely  in 
self-defense;  not  with  a  view  to  impose  upon  the  public,  but  to 
hinder  the  public  from  being  imposed  upon,  to  his  disadvantage, 
by  the  clamors,  the  whispers,  or  the  intrigues,  either  of  that  par- 
ticular society  or  of  some  other  of  the  same  kind. 

The  prudent  man  is  always  sincere;  and  feels  horror  at  the 
very  thought  of  exposing  himself  to  the  disgrace  which  attends 
upon  the  detection  of  falsehood.  But  though  always  sincere,  he 
is  not  always  frank  and  open;  and  though  he  never  tells  anything 
but  the  truth,  he  does  not  always  think  himself  bound,  when  not 
properly  called  upon,  to  tell  the  whole  truth.  As  he  is  cautious 
in  his  actions,  so  he  is  reserved  in  his  speech;  and  never  rashly 
or  unnecessarily  obtrudes  his  opinion  concerning  either  things  or 
persons. 

The  prudent  man,  though  not  always  distinguished  by  the 
most  exquisite  sensibility,  is  always  very  capable  of  friendship. 
But  his  friendship  is  not  that  ardent  and  passionate  but  too  often 
tran-sitory  affection,  which  appears  so  delicious  to  the  generosity 
of  youth  and  inexperience.  It  is  a  sedate  but  steady  and  faith- 
ful attachment   to  a  few  well-tried  and  well-chosen  companions; 


ADAM  SMITH  13525 

in  the  choice  of  whom  he  is  guided  not  by  the  giddy  admiration 
of  shining  accomplishments,  but  by  the  sober  esteem  of  modesty, 
discretion,  and  good  conduct.  But  though  capable  of  friendship, 
he  is  not  always  much  disposed  to  general  sociality.  He  rarely 
frequents,  and  more  rarely  figures  in,  those  convivial  societies 
which  are  distinguished  for  the  jollity  and  gayety  of  their  con- 
versation. Their  way  of  life  might  too  often  interfere  with  the 
regularity  of  his  temperance,  might  interrupt  the  steadiness  of 
his  industry,  or  break  in  upon  the  strictness  of  his  frugality. 

But  though  his  conversation  may  not  always  be  very  sprightly 
or  diverting,  it  is  always  perfectly  inoffensive.  He  hates  the 
thought  of  being  guilty  of  any  petulance  or  rudeness;  he  never 
assumes  impertinently  over  anybody,  and  upon  all  common  occas- 
ions is  willing  to  place  himself  rather  below  than  above  his 
equals.  Both  in  his  conduct  and  conversation  he  is  an  exact 
observer  of  decency;  and  respects,  with  an  almost  religious  scru- 
pulosity, all  the  established  decorums  and  ceremonials  of  society. 
And  in  this  respect  he  sets  a  much  better  example  than  has  fre- 
quently been  done  by  men  of  much  more  splendid  talents  and 
virtues,  who  in  all  ages  —  from  that  of  Socrates  and  Aristip- 
pus  down  to  that  of  Dr.  Swift  and  Voltaire,  and  from  that  of 
Philip  and  Alexander  the  Great  down  to  that  of  the  great  Czar 
Peter  of  Moscovy  —  have  too  often  distinguished  themselves  by 
the  most  improper  and  even  insolent  contempt  of  all  the  ordi- 
nary decorums  of  life  and  conversation,  and  who  have  thereby 
set  the  most  pernicious  example  to  those  who  wish  to  resemble 
them,  and  who  too  often  content  themselves  with  imitating  their 
follies  without  even  attempting  to  attain  their  perfections. 

In  the  steadiness  of  his  industry  and  frugality,  in  his  steadily 
sacrificing  the  ease  and  enjoyment  of  the  present  moment  for  the 
probable  expectation  of  the  still  greater  ease  and  enjoyment  of  a 
more  distant  but  more  lasting  period  of  time,  the  prudent  man 
is  always  both  supported  and  rewarded  by  the  entire  approbation 
of  the  impartial  spectator,  and  of  the  representative  of  the 
impartial  spectator, —  the  man  within  the  breast.  The  impartial 
spectator  does  not  feel  himself  worn  out  by  the  present  labor 
of  those  whose  conduct  he  surveys;  nor  does  he  feel  himself 
solicited  by  the  importunate  calls  of  their  present  appetites.  To 
him  their  present,  and  what  is  likely  to  be  their  future,  situation 
are  very  nearly  the  same;  he  sees  them  nearly  at  the  same  dis- 
tance, and  is  affected  by  them  very  nearly  in  the  same  manner: 
he   knows,    however^   that    to    the    persons    principall}'    concerned 


13526  ADAM   SMITH 

they  are  very  far  from  being  the  same,  and  that  they  naturally 
affect  tJieni  in  a  very  different  manner.  He  cannot  therefore 
but  approve,  and  even  applaud,  that  proper  exertion  of  self- 
command  which  enables  them  to  act  as  if  their  present  and  their 
future  situation  affected  them  nearly  in  the  same  manner  in 
which   they  affect  him. 

The  man  who  lives  within  his  income  is  naturally  contented 
with  his  situation,  which  by  continual  though  small  accumulations 
is  growing  better  and  better  every  day.  He  is  enabled  gradually 
to  relax,  both  in  the  rigor  of  his  parsimony  and  in  the  sever- 
ity of  his  application;  and  he  feels  with  double  satisfaction  this 
gradual  increase  of  ease  and  enjoyment,  from  having  felt  before 
the  hardship  which  attended  the  want  of  them.  He  has  no 
anxiety  to  change  so  comfortable  a  situation;  and  does  not  go 
in  quest  of  new  enterprises  and  adventures,  which  might  endan- 
ger, but  could  not  well  increase,  the  secure  tranquillity  which  he 
actually  enjoys.  If  he  enters  into  any  new  projects  or  enter- 
prises, they  are  likely  to  be  well  concerted  and  well  prepared. 
He  can  never  be  hurried  or  driven  into  them  by  any  necessity, 
but  has  always  time  and  leisure  to  deliberate  soberly  and  coolly 
concerning  what  are  likely  to  be  their  consequences. 

The  prudent  man  is  not  willing  to  subject  himself  to  any 
responsibility  which  his  duty  does  not  impose  upon  him.  He  is 
not  a  bustler  in  business  where  he  has  no  concern;  is  not  a 
meddler  in  other  people's  affairs;  is  not  a  professed  counselor 
or  adviser,  who  obtrudes  his  advice  where  nobody  is  asking  it; 
he  confines  himself,  as  much  as  his  duty  will  permit,  to  his  own 
affairs,  and  has  no  taste  for  that  foolish  importance  which  many 
people  wish  to  derive  from  appearing  to  have  some  influence  in 
the  management  of  those  of  other  people;  he  is  averse  to  enter 
into  any  party  disputes,  hates  faction,  and  is  not  always  very 
forward  to  listen  to  the  voice  even  of  noble  and  great  ambition. 
When  distinctly  called  upon,  he  will  not  decline  the  service  of 
his  country;  but  he  will  not  cabal  in  order  to  force  himself  into 
it,  and  would  be  much  better  pleased  that  the  public  business 
were  well  managed  by  some  other  person,  than  that  he  himself 
should  have  the  trouble,  and  incur  the  responsibility,  of  mana- 
ging it.  In  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  would  prefer  the  undis- 
turbed enjoyment  of  secure  tranquillity,  not  only  to  all  the  vain 
splendor  of  successful  ambition,  but  to  the  real  and  solid  glory 
of  performing  the  greatest  and  most  magnanimous  actions. 


J 


ADAM  SMITH  135  2 7 

OF   THE   WAGES   OF    LABOR 
From  the  <  Wealth  of  Nations  > 

THE    produce    of   labor   constitutes    the    natural    recompense  or 
wages  of  labor. 
In  that  original   state  of  things,  which   precedes   both  the 
appropriation   of  land   and  the   accumulation   of   stock,   the   whole 
produce  of  labor  belongs  to  the  laborer.     He  has  neither  landlord 
nor  master  to  share  with  him. 

•  Had  this  state  continued,  the  wages  of  labor  would  have  aug- 
mented with  all  those  improvements  in  its  productive  powers,  to 
which  the  division  of  labor  gives  occasion.  All  things  would  grad- 
ually have  become  cheaper.  They  would  have  been  produced  by 
a  smaller  quantity  of  labor;  and  as  the  commodities  produced  by 
equal  quantities  of  labor  would  naturally  in  this  state  of  things 
be  exchanged  for  one  another,  they  would  have  been  purchased 
likewise  with  the  produce  of  a  smaller  quantity. 

But  though  all  things  would  have  become  cheaper  in  real- 
ity, in  appearance  many  things  might  have  become  dearer  than 
before,  or  have  been  exchanged  for  a  greater  quantity  of  other 
goods.  Let  us  suppose,  for  example,  that  in  the  greater  part  of 
employments  the  productive  powers  of  labor  had  been  improved 
to  tenfold,  or  that  a  day's  labor  could  produce  ten  times  the 
quantity  of  work  which  it  had  done  originally;  but  that  in  a  par- 
ticular employment  they  had  been  improved  only  to  double,  or 
that  a  day's  labor  could  produce  only  twice  the  quantity  of  work 
which  it  had  done  before.  In  exchanging  the  produce  of  a  day's 
labor  in  the  greater  part  of  employments,  for  that  of  a  day's  labor 
in  this  particular  one,  ten  times  the  original  quantity  of  work  in 
them  would  purchase  only  twice  the  original  quantity  in  it.  Any 
particular  quantity  in  it,  therefore, —  a  pound  weight  for  example, 
—  would  appear  to  be  five  times  dearer  than  before.  In  reality, 
however,  it  would  be  twice  as  cheap  Though  it  required  five 
times  the  quantity  of  other  goods  to  produce  it,  it  would  require 
only  half  the  quantity  of  labor  cither  to  purchase  or  to  produce 
it.     The  acquisition,  therefore,  would  be  twice  as  easy  as  before. 

But  this  original  state  of  things,  in  which  the  laborer  enjoyed 
the  whole  produce  of  his  own  labor,  could  not  last  beyond  the 
first  introduction  of  the  appropriation  of  land  and  the  accumula- 
tion of  stock.  It  was  at  an  end,  therefore,  long  before  the  most 
considerable  improvements  were  made  in  the  productive  powers 


13528 


ADAM   SMITH 


of  labor,  and  ic  would  be  to  no  purpose  to  trace  further  what 
might  have  been  its  effects  upon  the  recompense  or  wages  of 
labor. 

As  soon  as  land  becomes  private  property,  the  landlord  de- 
mands a  '  share  of  almost  all  the  produce  which  the  laborer  can 
either  raise,  or  collect  from  it.  His  rent  makes  the  first  deduc- 
tion from  the  produce  of  the  labor  which  is  employed  upon  land. 

It  seldom  happens  that  the  person  who  tills  the  ground  has 
wherewithal  to  maintain  himself  till  he  reaps  the  harvest.  His 
maintenance  is  generally  advanced  to  him  from  the  stock  of  a 
master,  the  farmer  who  employs  him,  and  who  would  have  no 
interest  to  employ  him  unless  he  was  to  share  in  the  produce  of 
his  labor,  or  unless  his  stock  was  to  be  replaced  to  him  with  a 
profit.  This  profit  makes  a  second  deduction  from  the  produce 
of  the  labor  which  is  employed  upon  land. 

The  produce  of  almost  all  other  labor  is  liable  to  the  like 
deduction  of  profit.  In  all  arts  and  manufactures  the  greater 
part  of  the  workmen  stand  in  need  of  a  master  to  advance  them 
the  materials  of  their  work,  and  their  wages  and  maintenances 
till  it  be  completed.  He  shares  in  the  produce  of  their  labor, 
or  in  the  value  which  it  adds  to  the  materials  upon  which  it  is 
bestowed;    and  in  this  consists  his  profit. 

It  sometimes  happens,  indeed,  that  a  single  independent  work- 
man has  stock  sufficient  both  to  purchase  the  materials  of  his 
work,  and  to  maintain  himself  till  it  be  completed.  He  is  both 
master  and  workman,  and  enjoys  the  whole  produce  of  his  own 
labor,  or  the  whole  value  which  it  adds  to  the  materials  upon 
which  it  is  bestowed.  It  includes  what  are  usually  two  distinct 
revenues  belonging  to  two  distinct  persons, —  the  profits  of  stock, 
and  the  wages  of  labor. 

Such  cases,  however,  are  not  very  frequent,  and  in  every 
part  of  Europe,  twenty  workmen  serve  under  a  master  for  one 
that  is  independent;  and  the  wages  of  labor  are  everywhere  un- 
derstood to  be,  what  they  usually  are  when  the  laborer  is  one 
person,  and  the  owner  of  the  stock  which  employs  him  another. 

What  are  the  common  wages  of  labor,  depends  everywhere 
upon  the  contract  usually  made  between  those  two  parties,  whose 
interests  are  by  no  means  the  same.  The  workmen  desire  to 
get  as  much,  the  masters  to  give  as  little,  as  possible.  The 
former  are  disposed  t.o  combine  in  order  to  raise,  the  latter  in 
order  to  lower,   the  wages  of  labor 


ADAM  SMITH  135  29 

It  is  not,  however,  difficult  to  foresee  which  of  these  two  par- 
ties must,  upon  all  ordinary  occasions,  have  the  advantage  in  the 
dispute,  and  force  the  other  into  a  compliance  with  their  terms. 
The  masters,  being  fewer  in  number,  can  combine  much  more 
easily;  and  the  law,  besides,  authorizes  or  at  least  does  not  pro- 
hibit their  combinations,  while  it  prohibits  those  of  the  workmen.* 
We  have  no  acts  of  Parliament  against  combining  to  lower  the 
price  of  work;  but  many  against  combining  to  raise  it.  In  all 
such  disputes  the  masters  can  hold  out  much  longer.  A  land- 
lord, a  farmer,  a  master  manufacturer  or  merchant,  though  they 
did  not  employ  a  single  workman,  could  generally  live  a  year  or 
two  upon  the  stocks  which  they  have  already  acquired.  Many 
workmen  could  not  subsist  a  week,  few  could  subsist  a  month, 
and  scarce  any  a  year,  without  employment.  In  the  long  run  the 
workman  may  be  as  necessary  to  his  master  as  his  master  is  to 
him;    but  the  necessity  is  not  so  immediate. 

We  rarely  hear,  it  has  been  said,  of  the  combinations  of 
masters,  though  frequently  of  those  of  workmen.  But  whoever 
imagines  upon  this  account  that  masters  rarely  combine,  is  as 
ignorant  of  the  world  as  of  the  subject.  Masters  are  always 
and  everywhere  in  a  sort  of  tacit,  but  constant  and  uniform,  com- 
bination not  to  raise  the  wages  of  labor  above  their  actual  rate. 
To  violate  this  combination  is  everywhere  a  most  unpopular  ac- 
tion, and  a  sort  of  reproach  to  a  master  among  his  neighbors  and 
equals.  We  seldom  indeed  hear  of  this  combination,  because  it 
is  the  usual,  and  one  may  say,  the  natural  state  of  things,  which 
nobody  ever  hears  of.  Masters,  too,  sometimes  enter  into  particu- 
lar combinations  to  sink  the  wages  of  labor  even  below  this  rate. 
These  are  always  conducted  with  the  utmost  silence  and  secrecy 
till  the  moment  of  execution ;  and  when  the  workmen  yield,  as 
they  sometimes  do,  without  resistance,  though  severely  felt  by 
them  they  are  never  heard  of  by  other  people.  Such  combina- 
tions, however,  are  frequently  resisted  by  a  contrary  defensive 
combination  of  the  workmen ;  who  sometimes,  too,  without  any 
provocation  of  this  kind,  combine  of  their  own  accord  to  raise 
the  price  of  their  labor.  Their  usual  pretenses  are,  sometimes  the 
high  price  of  provisions,  sometimes  the  great  profit  which  their 
masters  make  bv  their  work.  But  whether  their  combinations  be 
offensive  or  defensive,  they  are  always  abundantly  heard  of.     In 

*  Repealed  in  1824. 


13530  ADAM  SMITH 

order  to  bring  the  point  to  a  speedy  decision,  they  have  always 
recourse  to  the  loudest  clamor,  and  sometimes  to  the  most  shock- 
ing violence  and  outrage.  They  are  desperate;  and  act  with  the 
folly  and  extravagance  of  desperate  men,  who  must  either  starve 
or  frighten  their  masters  into  an  immediate  compliance  with  their 
demands.  The  masters  upon  these  occasions  are  just  as  clamor- 
ous upon  the  other  side;  and  never  cease  to  call  aloud  for  the 
assistance  of  the  civil  magistrate,  and  the  rigorous  execution  of 
those  laws  which  have  been  enacted  with  so  much  severity 
against  the  combinations  of  servants,  laborers,  and  journeymen. 
The  workmen,  accordingly,  very  seldom  derive  any  advantage 
from  the  violence  of  those  tumultuous  combinations,  which,  partly 
from  the  interposition  of  the  civil  magistrate,  partly  from  the 
superior  steadiness  of  the  masters,  partly  from  the  necessity 
which  the  greater  part  of  the  workmen  are  under  of  submitting, 
for  the  sake  of  present  subsistence,  generally  end  in  nothing  but 
the  punishment  or  ruin  of  the  ringleaders. 


HOME    INDUSTRIES 

Of  Restraints  upon  the  Importation  from  Foreign  Countries 
OF  SUCH  Goods  as  can  be  Produced  at  Home 

From  the  <  Wealth  of  Nations  > 

THE  general  industry  of  the  society  can  never  exceed  what  the 
capital  of  the  society  can  employ.  As  the  number  of  work- 
men that  can  be  kept  in  employment  by  any  particular  per- 
son must  bear  a  certain  proportion  to  his  capital,  so  the  number 
of  those  that  can  be  continually  employed  by  all  the  members  of 
a  great  society  must  bear  a  certain  proportion  to  the  whole  capi- 
tal of  that  society,  and  can  never  exceed  that  proportion.  No 
regulation  of  commerce  can  increase  the  quantity  of  industry  in 
any  society  beyond  what  its  capital  can  maintain.  It  can  only 
divert  a  part  of  it  into  a  direction  into  which  it  might  not  other- 
wise have  gone;  and  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  this  artificial 
direction  is  likely  to  be  more  advantageous  to  the  society  than 
that   into  which  it  would  have  gone   of  its  own  accord. 

Every  individual  is  continually  exerting  himself  to  find  out  the 
most  advantageous  employment  for  whatever  capital  he  can  com- 
mand.     It  is  his  own  advantage,  indeed,  and  not  that  of  society, 


ADAM    SMITH  I-^^I 

which  he  has  in  view.  But  the  study  of  his  own  advantage, 
naturally,  or  rather  necessarily,  leads  him  to  prefer  that  employ- 
ment which  is  most  advantageous  to  the  society. 

I.  Every  individual  endeavors  to  employ  his  capital  as  near 
home  as  he  can,  and  consequently  as  much  as  he  can  in  the  sup- 
port of  domestic  industry;  provided  always  that  he  can  thereby 
obtain  the  ordinary,  or  not  a  great  deal  less  than  the  ordinary, 
profits  of  stock. 

Thus,  upon  equal  or  nearly  equal  profits,  every  wholesale 
merchant  naturally  prefers  the  home  trade  to  the  foreign  trade 
of  consumption,  and  the  foreign  trade  of  consumption  to  the  car- 
rying trade.  In  the  home  trade  his  capital  is  never  so  long  out 
of  his  sight  as  it  frequently  is  in  the  foreign  trade  of  consump- 
tion. He  can  know  better  the  character  and  situation  of  the 
person  whom  he  trusts;  and  if  he  should  happen  to  be  deceived, 
he  knows  better  the  laws  of  the  country  from  which  he  must 
seek  redress.  In  the  carrying  trade,  the  capital  of  the  merchant 
is,  as  it  were,  divided  between  two  foreign  coimtries;  and  no  part 
of  it  is  ever  necessarily  brought  home,  or  placed  under  his  own 
immediate  view  and  command. 

II.  Every  individual  who  employs  his  capital  in  the  support 
of  domestic  industry,  necessarily  endeavors  so  to  direct  that  in- 
dustry that  its  produce  may  be  of  the  greatest  possible  value. 

The  produce  of  industry  is  what  it  adds  to  the  subject  or 
materials  upon  which  it  is  employed.  In  proportion  as  the  value 
of  this  produce  is  great  or  small,  so  will  likewise  be  the  profits 
of  the  employer.  But  it  is  only  for  the  sake  of  profit  that  any 
man  employs  a  capital  in  the  support  of  industry;  and  he  will 
always,  therefore,  endeavor  to  employ  it  in  the  support  of  that 
industry  of  which  the  produce  is  likely  to  be  of  the  greatest 
value,  or  to  exchange  for  the  greatest  quantity  either  of  money 
or  of  other  goods. 

But  the  annual  revenue  of  ever}'  society  is  always  precisely 
equal  to  the  exchangeable  value  of  the  whole  annual  produce 
of  its  industry,  or  rather  is  precisely  the  same  thing  with  that 
exchangeable  value.  As  every  individual,  therefore,  endeavors 
as  much  as  he  can  both  to  employ  his  capital  in  the  support  of 
domestic  industry,  and  so  to  direct  that  industry  that  its  produce 
may  be  of  the  greatest  value,  every  individual  necessaril}'  labors  to 
render  the  annual  revenue  of  the  society  as  great  as  he  can.  He 
generally,   indeed,   neither  intends  to   promote  the   public   interest 


13532  ADAM  SMITH 

nor  knows  how  much  he  is  promoting  it.  By  preferring  the 
support  of  domestic  to  that  of  foreign  industry,  he  intends  only 
his  own  security;  and  by  directing  that  industry  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  its  produce  may  be  of  the  greatest  value,  he  intends  only 
his  own  gain;  and  he  is  in  this,  as  in  many  other  cases,  led  by 
an  invisible  hand  to  promote  an  end  which  was  no  part  of  his 
intention.  Nor  is  it  always  the  worse  for  the  society  that  it  was 
no  part  of  it.  By  pursuing  his  own  interest,  he  frequently  pro- 
motes that  of  the  society  more  effectually  than  when  he  really 
intends  to  promote  it.  I  have  never  known  much  good  done  by 
those  who  affected  to  trade  for  the  public  good.  It  is  an  affecta- 
tion, indeed,  not  very  common  among  merchants,  and  very  few 
words  need  be  employed  in  dissuading  them  from  it. 

What  is  the  species  of  domestic  industry  which  his  capital  can 
employ,  and  of  which  the  produce  is  likely  to  be  of  the  greatest 
value,  every  individual,  it  is  evident,  can,  in  this  local  situation, 
judge  much  better  than  any  statesman  or  lawgiver  can  do  for 
him.  The  statesman  who  should  attempt  to  direct  private  peo- 
ple in  what  manner  they  ought  to  employ  their  capitals,  would 
not  only  load  himself  with  a  most  unnecessary  attention,  but 
assume  an  authority  which  could  safely  be  trusted,  not  only  to 
no  single  person,  but  to  no  council  or  senate  whatever;  and  which 
would  nowhere  be  so  dangerous  as  in  the  hands  of  a  man  who 
had  folly  and  presumption  enough  to  fancy  himself  fit  to  exer- 
cise it. 

To  give  the  monopoly  of  the  home  market  to  the  produce 
of  domestic  industry,  in  any  particular  art  or  manufacture,  is  in 
some  measure  to  direct  private  people  in  what  manner  they 
ought  to  employ  their  capitals;  and  must  in  almost  all  cases  be 
either  a  useless  or  a  hurtful  regulation.  If  the  produce  of  do- 
mestic can  be  brought  there  as  cheap  as  that  of  foreign  industry, 
the  regulation  is  evidently  useless.  If  it  cannot,  it  must  gener- 
ally be  hurtful.  It  is  the  maxim  of  every  prudent  master  of  a 
family  never  to  attempt  to  make  at  home  what  it  will  cost  him 
more  to  make  than  to  buy.  The  tailor  does  not  attempt  to  make 
his  own  shoes,  but  buys  them  of  the  shoemaker.  The  shoemaker 
does  not  attempt  to  make  his  own  clothes,  but  employs  a  tailor. 
The  farmer  attempts  to  make  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  but 
employs  those  different  artificers.  All  of  them  find  it  for  their 
interest  to  employ  their  whole  industry  in  a  way  in  which  they 
have  some  advantage  over  their  neighbors;   and  to  purchase  with 


ADAM   SMITH  13533 

a  part  of  its  produce  —  or  what  is  the  same  thing,  with  the  price 
of  a  part  of  it  —  whatever  else  they  have  occasion  for. 

What  is  prudence  in  the  conduct  of  every  private  family  can 
scarce  be  folly  in  that  of  a  great  kingdom.  If  a  foreign  country 
can  supply  us  with  a  commodity  cheaper  than  we  ourselves  can 
make  it,  better  buy  it  of  them  with  some  part  of  the  produce 
of  our  own  industry,  employed  in  a  way  in  which  we  have  some 
advantage.  The  general  industry  of  the  country,  being  always 
in  proportion  to  the  capital  which  employs  it,  will  not  thereby  be 
diminished,  no  more  than  that  of  the  above-mentioned  artificers; 
but  only  left  to  find  out  the  way  in  which  it  can  be  employed 
with  the  greatest  advantage.  It  is  certainly  not  employed  to 
the  greatest  advantage  when  it  is  thus  directed  towards  an  object 
which  it  can  buy  cheaper  than  it  can  make.  The  value  of  its 
annual  produce  is  certainly  more  or  less  diminished,  when  it  is 
thus  turned  away  from  producing  commodities  evidently  of  more 
value  than  the  commodity  which  it  is  directed  to  produce.  Accord- 
ing to  the  supposition,  that  commodity  could  be  purchased  from 
foreign  countries  cheaper  than  it  can  be  made  at  home.  It  could 
therefore  have  been  purchased  with  a  part  only  of  the  commodi- 
ties, or  what  is  the  same  thing,  with  a  part  only  of  the  price  of 
the  commodities,  which  the  industry  employed  by  an  equal  capi- 
tal would  have  produced  at  home  had  it  been  left  to  follow  its 
natural  course.  The  industry  of  the  country,  therefore,  is  thus 
turned  away  from  a  more  to  a  less  advantageous  employment; 
and  the  changeable  value  of  its  annual  produce,  instead  of  being 
increased  according  to  the  intention  of  the  lawgiver,  must  neces- 
sarily be  diminished,  by  every  such   regulation. 

By  means  of  such  regulations,  indeed,  a  particular  manufacture 
may  sometimes  be  acquired  sooner  than  it  could  have  been  other- 
wise, and  after  a  certain  time  may  be  made  at  home  as  cheap  or 
cheaper  than  in  the  foreign  country.  But  though  the  industry  of 
the  society  may  be  thus  carried  with  advantage  into  a  particular 
channel  sooner  than  it  could  have  been  otherwise,  it  will  by  no 
means  follow  that  the  sum  total,  either  of  its  industry  or  of  its 
revenue,  can  ever  be  augmented  by  any  such  regulation.  The 
industry  of  the  society  can  augment  only  in  proportion  as  its 
capital  augments,  and  its  capital  can  augment  only  in  propor- 
tion to  what  can  be  gradually  saved  out  of  its  revenue.  But  the 
immediate  effect  of  every  such  regulation  is  to  diminish  its  rev- 
enue ;    and  what  diminishes  its  revenue  is  certainly  not  very  likely 


J-C34  ADAM   SMITH 

to  augment  its  capital  faster  than  it  would  have  augmented  of  its 
own  accord,  had  both  their  capital  and  their  industry  been  left  to 
find  out  their  natural  employments. 

Though  for  want  of  such  regulations  the  society  should  never 
acquire  the  proposed  manufacture,  it  would  not  upon  that  ac- 
count necessarily  be  the  poorer  in  any  one  period  of  its  duration. 
In  every  period  of  its  duration  its  whole  capital  and  industry 
might  still  have  been  employed,  though  upon  different  objects,  in 
the  manner  that  was  most  advantageous  at  the  time.  In  every 
period  its  revenue  might  have  been  the  greatest  which  its  capi- 
tal could  afford ;  and  both  capital  and  revenue  might  have  been 
augmented  with  the  greatest  possible  rapidity. 

The  natural  advantages  which  one  country  has  over  another 
in  producing  particular  commodities  are  sometimes  so  great  that 
it  is  acknowledged  by  all  the  world  to  be  in  vain  to  struggle 
with  them.  By  means  of  glasses,  hot-beds,  and  hot-walls,  very 
^good  grapes  can  be  raised  in  Scotland,  and  very  good  wine  too 
can  be  made  of  them,  at  about  thirty  times  the  expense  for 
which  at  least  equally  good  can  be  brought  from  foreign  coun- 
tries. Would  it  be  a  reasonable  law  to  prohibit  the  importation 
of  all  foreign  wines  merely  to  encourage  the  making  of  claret 
and  burgundy  in  Scotland  ?  But  if  there  would  be  a  manifest 
absurdity  in  turning  towards  any  employment  thirty  times 
more  of  the  capital  and  industry  of  the  country  than  would  be 
necessary  to  purchase  from  foreign  countries  an  equal  quantity 
of  the  commodities  wanted,  there  must  be  an  absurdity,  though 
not  altogether  so  glaring,  yet  exactly  of  the  same  kind,  in  turn- 
ing towards  any  such  employment  a  thirtieth,  or  even  a  three- 
hundredth  part  more  of  either.  Whether  the  advantages  which 
one  country  has  over  another  be  natural  or  acquired  is  in  this 
respect  of  no  consequence.  As  long  as  the  one  country  has 
those  advantages  and  the  other  wants  them,  it  will  always  be 
more  advantageous  for  the  latter  rather  to  buy  of  the  former 
than  to  make.  It  is  an  acquired  advantage  only  which  one  arti- 
ficer has  over  his  neighbor  who  exercises  another  trade ;  and  yet 
they  both  find  it  more  advantageous  to  buy  of  one  another  than 
to  make  what  does  not  belong  to  their  particular  trades. 


ADAM   SMITH  13535 

OF   MILITARY   AND   GENERAL   EDUCATION 
From  the  <  Wealth  of  Nations  > 

THAT  m  the  progress  of  improvement  the  practice  of  military 
exercises,  unless  government  takes  proper  pains  to  sup- 
port it,  goes  gradually  to  decay, —  and  together  with  it,  the 
martial  spirit  of  the  great  body  of  the  people, —  the  example 
of  modern  Europe  sufficiently  demonstrates.  But  the  security 
of  every  society  must  always  depend,  more  or  less,  upon  the 
martial  spirit  of  the  great  body  of  the  people.  In  the  present 
times,  indeed,  the  martial  spirit  alone,  and  unsupported  by  a  well- 
disciplined  standing  army,  would  not  perhaps  be  sufficient  for 
the  defense  and  security  of  any  society.  But  where  every  citizen 
had  the  spirit  of  a  soldier,  a  smaller  standing  army  would  surely 
be  requisite.  That  spirit,  besides,  would  necessarily  diminish  very 
much  the  dangers  to  liberty,  whether  real  or  imaginary,  which 
are  commonly  apprehended  from  a  standing  army.  As  it  would 
very  much  facilitate  the  operations  of  that  army  against  a  foreign 
invader,  so  it  would  obstruct  them  as  much  if  unfortunately  they 
should  ever  be  directed  against  the  constitution  of  the  State. 

The  ancient  institutions  of  Greece  and  Rome  seem  to  have 
been  much  more  effectual  for  maintaining  the  martial  spirit  of  the 
great  body  of  the  people,  than  the  establishment  of  what  are  called 
the  militias  of  modern  times.  They  were  much  more  simple. 
When  they  were  once  established,  they  executed  themselves,  and 
it  required  little  or  no  attention  from  government  to  maintain 
them  in  the  most  perfect  vigor.  Whereas  to  maintain,  even  in 
tolerable  execution,  the  complex  regulations  of  any  modern  mili- 
tia, requires  the  continual  and  painful  attention  of  government, 
without  which  they  are  constantly  falling  into  total  neglect  and 
disuse.  The  iniluence,  besides,  of  the  ancient  institutions  was 
much  more  universal.  By  means  of  them  the  whole  body  of  the 
people  was  completely  instructed  in  the  use  of  arms.  Whereas 
it  is  but  a  very  small  part  of  them  who  can  ever  be  so  instructed 
by  the  regulations  of  any  modern  militia,  except  perhaps  that  of 
Switzerland.  But  a  coward — a  man  incapable  of  defending  or 
of  revenging  himself  —  evidentl)'  wants  one  of  the  most  essential 
parts  of  the  character  of  a  man.  He  is  as  much  mutilated  and 
deformed  in  his  mind  as  another  is  in  his  body,  who  is  either 
deprived  of  some  of  its  most  essential  members  or  has  lost  the 
use  of  them.      He   is  evidently  the  more   wretched  and  miserable 


13536 


ADAM    SMITH 


of  the  two;  because  happiness  and  misery,  which  reside  altog-ether 
in  the  mind,  must  necessarily  depend  more  upon  the  healthful  or 
unhealthful,  the  mutilated  or  entire  state  of  the  mind,  than  upon 
that  of  the  body.  Even  though  the  martial  spirit  of  the  people 
were  of  no  use  towards  the  defense  of  the  society,  yet  to  pre- 
vent that  sort  of  mental  mutilation,  deformity,  and  wretchedness, 
which  cowardice  necessarily  involves  in  it,  from  spreading  them- 
selves through  the  great  body  of  the  people,  would  still  deserve 
the  most  serious  attention  of  government,  in  the  same  manner  as 
it  would  deserve  its  most  serious  attention  to  prevent  a  leprosy, 
or  any  other  loathsome  -and  offensive  disease  though  neither 
mortal  nor  dangerous,  from  spreading  itself  among  them;  though 
perhaps  no  other  public  good  might  result  from  such  attention 
besides  the  prevention  of   so  great  a  public  evil. 

The  same  thing  may  be  said  of  the  gross  ignorance  and  stu- 
pidity which,  in  a  civiHzed  society,  seem  so  frequently  to  benumb 
the  understandings  of  all  the  inferior  ranks  of  people.  A  man 
without  the  proper  use  of  the  intellectual  faculties  of  a  man  is, 
if  possible,  more  contemptible  than  even  a  coward;  and  seems  to 
be  mutilated  and  deformed  in  a  still  more  essential  part  of  the 
character  of  human  nature.  Though  the  State  was  to  derive  no 
advantage  from  the  instruction  of  the  inferior  ranks  of  people,  it 
would  still  deserve  its  attention  that  they  should  not  be  altogether 
uninstructed.  The  State,  however,  derives  no  inconsiderable  ad- 
vantage from  their  instruction.  The  more  they  are  instructed, 
the  less  liable  they  are  to  the  delusions  of  enthusiasm  and  super- 
stition which,  among  ignorant  nations,  frequently  occasion  the 
most  dreadful  disorders.  An  instructed  and  intelligent  people, 
besides,  are  always  more  decent  and  orderly  than  an  ignorant 
and  stupid  one.  They  feel  themselves,  each  individually,  more 
respectable,  and  more  likely  to  obtain  the  respect  of  their  lawful 
superiors;  and  they  are  therefore  more  disposed  to  respect  those 
superiors.  They  are  more  disposed  to  examine,  and  more  capable 
of  seeing  through,  the  interested  complaints  of  faction  and  sedi- 
tion; and  they  are  upon  that  account  less  apt  to  be  misled  into 
any  wanton  or  unnecessary  opposition  to  the  measures  of  govern- 
ment. In  free  countries,  where  the  safety  of  government  depends 
very  much  upon  the  favorable  judgment  which  the  people  may 
form  of  its  conduct,  it  must  surely  be  of  the  highest  importance 
that  they  should  not  be  disposed  to  judge  rashly  or  capriciously 
concerning  it. 


13536a 


FRANCIS  HOPKINSON  SMITH 
(1838-191S) 

'o  most  American  readers,  the  name  of  F.  Hopkinson  Smith 
has  for  a  long  time  suggested  a  writer  of  pleasing  stories.  To 
a  large  number  also,  he  has  been  known  as  an  artist,  from  his 
drawings  in  Mexico  and  his  water-colors  of  Venetian  scenes,  as  an  art 
critic,  and  as  successful  lecturer  and  pleasing  after-dinner  speaker. 
To  a  smaller  number  he  is  known  as  the  marine  engineer  who  built 
the  sea-wall  around  Governor's  Island  and  the  foundation  for  the 
Statue  of  Liberty  in  the  harbor  of  New  York.  Thus  his  record  of 
achievement  is  varied  as  well  as  solid. 

His  purely  literary  work  falls  into  three  divisions:  sketches  of  travel, 
short  stories,  and  novels. 

In  the  first  group  are  ( Well- Worn  Roads  of  Spain  and  Italy)  (1886); 
(A  White  Umbrella  in  Mexico)  (1889);  (Gondola  Days)  (1899),  and 
(Venice  of  To-day)  (1897).  The  sub-title  of  (Well- Worn  Roads) 
might  serve  to  express  the  spirit  of  them  all:  ((Traveled  by  a  painter 
in  search  of  the  picturesque.))  For  he  is  always  the  observant  traveler 
of  literary  and  artistic  interests  giving  us  the  picturesque  scene  and 
the  piquant  bits  of  human  life.  Political  and  social  currents,  national 
ideals,  sociological  movements  are  touched  only  lightly  and  incidentally. 
The  reader  is  taken  in  pleasant  company  through  lands  that  are  full 
of  scenes  and  people  that  catch  the  eye,  divert  the  mind,  and  remind 
him  of  a  romantic  past. 

His  short  stories  are  narrative  sketches,  not  rigidly  conforming 
to  the  technique  of  the  short  story  as  a  type.  He  is  a  charming  story- 
teller, a  raconteur,  relying  for  his  effects  upon  interesting  byplay  of 
character,  upon  the  social  atmosphere  of  a  group,  upon  the  quality  of 
the  scenic  setting,  and  but  seldom  upon  violent  action  or  the  high  lights 
of  tragedy.  Such  are  the  collections  in  (The  Wood  Fire  in  Number  3) 
(1905)  and  (The  Chair  at  the  Inn)  (19 12).  The  latter  is  a  collection 
of  incidents  happening  and  stories  told  among  a  collection  of  artists 
gathered,  after  the  tourist  season,  at  a  charming  old  inn  in  Normandy. 
The  host  and  servants,  the  guests,  the  notable  and  interesting  neighbors 
in  nearby  chateaux,  and  particularly,  the  inn  itself,  —  with  its  Norman 
architecture,  its  flowers,  its  customs  and  cuisine,  —  all  combine  to  form 
an  effect  of  artistic  and  social  harmony.  It  is  a  glimpse  into  the  cul- 
tivated Bohemia  of  the  successful  artists;  a  Bohemia  without  sordidness, 
want,  ill-breeding,  or  envy;  the  Bohemia  of  the  successful.  This  tone 
of  easy  prosperity  without  the  chink  of  money,  the  intangible  but  quite 


13536  b  FRANCIS   HOPKINSON    SMITH 

positive  results  of  success  that  appear  as  good  company,  good  talk, 
and  good  feeling,  is  indeed  the  common  note  in  Smith's  representations 
of  life. 

The  short  story  would  seem  to  be  his  favorite  form.  Allowing  for  the 
difficulty  of  distinguishing  between  his  sketches  and  his  short  stories, 
there  are  some  seventy  or  more  that  may  fairly  be  called  stories.  There 
are  seven  collections  of  them:  (A  Day  at  Laguerre's)  (1892);  (The 
Other  Fellow)  (1899);  (The  Under  Dog)  (1903);  (The  Veiled  Lady  of 
Stamboul)  (1907);  (Forty  Minutes  Late)  (1909),  and  the  two  volumes 
mentioned  above. 

The  best  known  of  his  novels  are  (Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville) 
(1891);  (A  Gentleman  Vagabond)  (1895);  (Tom  Grogan)  (1896); 
(The  Fortunes  of  Oliver  Horn)  (1902);  (The  Tides  of  Barnegat)  (1906); 
(Kennedy  Square)  (1911),  and  (Felix  O'Day)  (1915). 

It  was  Colonel  Carter  that  gave  Smith  his  national  reputation. 
The  Colonel  was  a  chivalrous,  impractical,  visionary  old  gentleman, 
trying  vainly  to  adjust  himself  to  a  practical  world  while  retaining  the 
visions  and  the  standards  of  the  South  of  ante-bellum  days.  The 
creation  seemed,  whether  rightly  or  not,  to  embody  the  traditional 
Southern  gentleman.  His  famous  scheme  for  a  railroad,  whose  ter- 
minals and  route  would  touch  no  other  railroads  and  so  have  ((the 
advantage  of  escaping  competitors))  tickled  the  fancy  of  readers  with 
business  instincts.  His  relations  with  his  old  slave  and  still  faithful 
servant,  Chad,  who,  as  the  Colonel  said,  ((was  bawn  a  gentleman  and 
can't  get  over  it,))  gave  the  touch  of  traditional  poetry  that  even  the 
North  had  always  conceded  to  the  institution  of  slavery.  Hopkinson 
Smith,  born  in  Baltimore,  had  abundant  opportunity  to  know  these 
ante-bellum  traditions,  the  character  of  the  old  Southern  planters,  and 
the  characteristics  of  the  old-fashioned  Southern  negro.  His  representa- 
tion of  the  accent  of  the  cultivated  Virginian  and  of  the  negro  dialect 
was  realistic  and  convincing.  The  story  was  dramatized  and  had  a 
long  and  successful  run  in   Northern  cities. 

Like  Morris,  ((the  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day,))  Smith  remained, 
during  the  vogue  of  the  problem  novel,  its  displacement  by  the  pure 
romance,  and  its  return  in  other  forms,  a  teller  of  pleasing  stories,  serenely 
undeflected  by  the  currents  and  cross-currents  of  contemporary  fiction. 
Neither  the  problem  novel,  nor  the  novel  of  social  criticism,  nor  the 
psychological  novel,  is  his  field.  There  is  no  subtle  psychological 
analysis;  no  emphasis  of  the  subjective  beyond  what  is  common  in 
modern  work,  no  exaggeration  of  any  aspect  of  mental  and  moral  life. 
Striking  and  morbid  actions  or  characters  do  not  interest  him.  His 
themes  and  people  are  wholesome,  natural,  and  usual,  so  far  as  they 
may  be,  and  yet  hold  the  novel  reader's  interest.  He  does  not,  on  the 
other  hand,  choose  the  commonplace  ostentatiously;  he  is  not  a  Words- 
worthian.     The  minor  variations  from  the  norm,  such  peculiarities  as 


FRANCIS   HOPKIXSOX    SMITH  13536  c 

give  individuality,  he  is  quick  to  note,  especially  such  whimsicalities  of 
character  or  view  as  intellectual  people  see  in  their  fellows.  In  general, 
his  material  and  his  point  of  view  are  such  as  might,. in  small  amounts, 
appear  in  the  table-talk  of  educated  and  cosmopolitan  people. 

His  style  is  easy,  graceful,  and  not  too  self-conscious.  It  is  the 
language  of  the  finished  raconteur,  and  is  a  part  of  the  general  effect  of 
cultivation  and  finish  which  his  books  create. 

FROM  (COLONEL  CARTER  OF  CARTERSVILLE) 
Copyright  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  and  reprinted  by  their  permission. 

IT  was  some  time  before  I  could  quiet  the  old  man's  anxieties  and 
coax  him  back  into  his  usual  good  humor,  and  then  only  when 
I  began  to  ask  him  of  the  old  plantation  days. 

Then  he  fell  to  talking  about  the  colonel's  father,  General  John 
Carter,  and  the  high  days  at  Carter  Hall  when  Aliss  Nancy  was  a 
young  lady  and  the  colonel  a  boy  home  from  the  universit3^ 

((Dem  was  high  times.  We  ain't  neber  seed  no  time  like  dat 
since  de  war.  Git  up  in  de  mawnin'  an'  look  out  obcr  de  lawn,  an' 
3'er  come  fo'teen  or  fifteen  couples  ob  de  fustest  folks,  all  on  horseback 
ridin'  in  de  gate.  Den  such  a  scufflin'  round!  Old  marsa  an'  missis 
out  on  de  po'ch,  an'  de  little  pickaninnies  runnin'  from  de  quarters, 
an'  all  hands  helpin'  'em  off  de  horses,  an'  dey  all  smokin'  hot  wid  de 
gallop  up  de  lane. 

((An'  den  sich  a  breakfast  an'  sich  dancin'  an'  co'tin' ;  ladies  all  out 
on  de  lawn  in  der  white  dresses,  an'  de  gemmen  in  fair-top  boots,  an' 
Mammy  Jane  runnin'  round  same  as  a  chicken  wid  its  head  off,  —  an' 
der  heads  was  off  befo'  dey  knowed  it,  an'  dey  a-br'ilin'  on  de  gridiron. 

«Dat  would  go  on  a  week  or  mo',  and  den  up  dey '11  git  an'  away 
dey'd  go  to  de  nex'  plantation,  an'  take  Miss  Nancy  along  wid  'em 
on  her  little  sorrel  mare,  an'  I  on  Marsa  John's  black  horse,  to  take 
care  bofe  of  'em.     Dem  was  times ! 

((My  old  marsa,)) — and  his  eyes  glistened, — ((my  old  Marsa 
John  was  a  gemman,  sah,  like  dey  don't  see  nowadays.  Tall,  sah, 
an'  straight  as  a  cornstalk;  hair  white  an'  silky  as  de  tassel;  an'  a 
voice  like  de  birds  was  singin,'  it  was  dat  sweet. 

((  (Chad,)  he  use'  ter  say,  — you  know  I  was  young  den,  an'  I 
was  his  body  servant,  —  (Chad,  come  yer  till  I  bre'k  yo'  head) ;  an' 
den  when  I  come  he'd  laugh  fit  to  kill  hisself.  Dat's  when  you  do 
right.  But  when  you  was  a  low-down  nigger  an'  got  de  dcbbil  in  yer, 
an'  ole  marsa  hear  it  an'  send  de  oberseer  to  de  quarters  for  you  to 
come  to  de  little  room  in  de  big  house  whar  de  walls  was  all  books  an' 


13536  d  FRANCIS   HOPKINSON   SMITH 

whar  his  desk  was,   'twa'n't   no  birds   about   his  voice  den,  —  mo' 
like  de  thunder.)) 

((Did  he  whip  his  negroes?)) 

((No,  sah;  don't  reckelmember  a  single  lick  laid  on  airy  nigger 
dat  de  marsa  knowed  of;  but  when  dey  got  so  bad  —  an'  some  nig- 
gers is  dat  way  —  den  dey  was  sold  to  de  swamp  lan's.  He  wouldn't 
hab'  'em  round  'ruptin'  his  niggers,  he  use'  ter  say. 

((Hab  coffee,  sah?  Won't  take  I  a  minute  to  bile  it.  Colonel 
ain't  been  drinkin'  none  lately,  an'  so  I  don't  make  none.)) 

I  nodded  my  head,  and  Chad  closed  the  door  softly,  taking  with 
him  a  small  cup  and  saucer,  and  returning  in  a  few  minutes  followed 
by  that  most  delicious  of  all  aromas,  the  savory  steam  of  boiling  coffee. 

((My  Marsa  John,))  he  continued,  filling  the  cup  with  the  smoking 
beverage,  ((never  drank  nuffin'  but  tea,  even  at  de  big  dinners  when  all 
de  gemmen  had  coffee  in  de  little  cups  —  dat's  one  ob  'em  you's 
drinkin'  out  ob  now;  dey  ain't  mo'  dan  fo'  on  'em  left.  Old  marsa 
would  have  his  pot  ob  tea:  Henny  use'  ter  make  it  for  him;  makes  it 
now  for  Miss  Nancy. 

((Henny  was  a  young  gal  den,  long  'fo'  we  was  married.  Henny 
b'longed  to  Colonel  Lloyd  Barbour,  on  de  next  plantation  to  ourn. 

((Mo'  coffee,  Major?))  I  handed  Chad  the  empty  cup.  He  re- 
filled it,  and  went  straight  on  without  drawing  breath. 

((Wust  scrape  I  eber  got  into  wid  old  Marsa  John  was  ober  Henny. 
I  tell  ye  she  was  a  harricane  in  dem  days.  She  come  into  de  kitchen 
one  time  where  I  was  helpin'  git  de  dinner  ready  an'  de  cook  had  gone 
to  de  spring  house,  an'  she  says;  —  (Chad,  what  ye  cookin'  dat  smells 
so  nice?) 

((  (Dat's  a  goose,)  I  says,  (cookin'  for  Marsa  John's  dinner.  We 
got  quality,)  says  I,  pointin'  to  de  dinin'-room  do'. 

((  (Quality! )  she  says.  ('Spec'  I  know  what  de  quality  is.  Dat's 
for  you  an'  de  cook.)  Wid  dat  she  grabs  a  caarvin'  knife  from  de 
table,  opens  de  do'  ob  de  big  oven,  cuts  off  a  leg  ob  de  goose,  an' 
dis'pears  round  de  kitchen  corner  wid  de  leg  in  her  mouf. 

(('Fo'  I  knowed  whar  I  was  Marsa  John  come  to  de  kitchen  do' 
an'  says,  (Gitting' late,  Chad;  bring  in  de  dinner ! )  You  see.  Major, 
dey  ain't  no  up  an'  down  stairs  in  de  big  house,  like  it  is  yer;  kitchen 
an'  dinin'-room  all  on  de  same  flo'. 

((Well,  sah,  I  was  scared  to  def,  but  I  tuk  dat  goose  an'  laid  him 
wid  de  cut  side  down  on  de  bottom  of  de  pan  'fo'  de  cook  got  back, 
put  some  dressin'  an'  stuffin'  over  him,  an'  shet  de  stove  do'.  Den 
I  tuk  de  sweet  potatoes  an'  den  I  went  back  in  de  kitchen  to  git  de 


FRANCIS   HOPKINSON   SMITH  13536  e 

baked  ham.  I  put  on  de  ham  an'  some  mo'  dishes,  an'  marsa  says, 
lookin'  up: 

«  (I  fought  dere  was  a  roast  goose,  Chad?) 

«  (I  ain't  yerd  nothin'  'bout  no  goose,)  I  says.      (I'll  ask  de  cook.) 

((Next  minute  I  yerd  old  marsa  a-hollerin' : 

((  (Mammy  Jane,  ain't  we  got  a  goose?) 

((  ( Lord-a-massy !  yes,  marsa.  Chad,  you  wu'thless  nigger,  ain't 
you  tuk  dat  goose  out  yit?) 

((  (Is  we  got  a  goose?)  said  I. 

(( (Is  we  got  a  goose  ?     Didn't  you  help  pick  it?) 

((I  see  whar  my  hair  was  short,  an'  I  snatched  up  a  hot  dish  from 
de  hearth,  opened  de  oven  do'  an'  slide  de  goose  in  jes  as  he  was,  an' 
lay  him  down  befo'  Marsa  John. 

(((Now  see  what  de  ladies  '11  have  for  dinner,)  saj^s  old  marsa, 
pickin'  up  his  caarvin'  knife. 

(((What'll  you  take  for  dinner,  miss?)  says  I.      (Baked  ham?) 

(((No,)  she  says,  lookin'  up  to  whar  IMarsa  John  sat;  (I  think 
I'll  take  a  leg  ob  dat  goose)  —  jes  so. 

((Well,  marsa  cut  off  de  leg  an'  put  a  little  stuffin'  an'  gravy  on 
wid  a  spoon,  an'  says  to  me,  ( Chad,  see  what  dat  gemman  '11  have. ) 

(((What'll  you  take  for  dinner,  sah?)  says  I.  (Nice  breast  o' 
goose,  or  slice  o'  ham?) 

(((No;  I  think  I'll  take  a  leg  of  dat  goose,) he  says. 

((I  didn't  say  nuffin',  but  I  knowed  bery  well  he  warn't  a-gwine  to 
git  it. 

((But,  Major,  you  oughter  seen  olc  marsa  lookin'  for  de  udder 
leg  ob  dat  goose!  He  rolled  him  ober  on  de  dish,  dis  way  an'  dat 
way,  an'  den  he  jabbed  dat  ole  bone-handled  caarvin'  fork  in  him 
an'  hel'  him  up  ober  de  dish  an'  looked  under  him  an'  on  top  ob  him, 
an'  den  he  says,  kinder  sad  like ;  —  ( Chad,  whar  is  de  udder  leg  ob 
dat  goose?) 

(((It  didn't  hab  none,)  says  I. 

(((You  mean  ter  say,  Chad,  dat  de  gooses  on  my  plantation  only 
got  one  leg  ? ) 

(((Some  ob  'cm  has  an'  some  ob  'em  ain't.  You  see,  marsa,  we 
got  two  kinds  in  de  pond,  an'  we  was  a  little  boddercd  to-day,  so 
Mammy  Jane  cooked  dis  one  'cause  I  cotched  it  fust. ) 

(((Well,)  said  he,  lookin'  like  he  look  when  he  send  for  you  in  de 
little  room,  (I'll  settle  wid  ye  after  dinner.) 

((Well,  dar  I  was  shiverin'  an'  shakin'  in  my  shoes  an'  droppin' 
gravy  an'  spillin'  de  wine  on  de  table-cloth,  I  was  dat  shuck  up; 


13536  f  FRANCIS   HOPKINSON    SMITH 

an'  when  de  dinner  was  ober  he  calls  all  de  ladies  an'  gemmen,  an' 
says,  (Now  come  down  to  de  duck  pond.  I'm  gwine  ter  show  dis 
nigger  dat  all  de  gooses  on  my  plantation  got  mo'  den  one  leg. ' ) 

((I  followed  'long,  trapesin'  after  de  whole  kit  an'  b'ilin',  an'  when 
we  got  to  de  pond))  —  here  Chad  nearly  went  into  a  convulsion  with 
suppressed  laughter  —  ((dar  was  de  gooses  sittin'  on  a  log  in  de  middle 
of  dat  ole  green  goose-pond  wid  one  leg  stuck  down  —  so  —  an'  de 
udder  tucked  under  de  wing.)) 

Chad  was  now  on  one  leg,  balancing  himself  by  my  chair,  the 
tears  running  down  his  cheeks. 

(((Dar,  marsa, )  says  I,  (don't  ye  see?  Look  at  dat  ole  gray  goose! 
Dat's  de  bery  match  ob  de  one  we  had  to-day. ) 

((Den  de  ladies  all  hollered  an'  de  gemmen  laughed  so  loud  dey 
yerd  'em  at  de  big  house. 

(((Stop,  you  black  scoun'rel!)  Marsa  John  says,  his  face  gittin' 
white  an'  he  a-jerkin'  hes  handkerchief  from  his  pocket.      (Shoo!) 

((Major,  I  hope  to  have  my  brains  kicked  out  by  a  lame  grass- 
hopper if  ebery  one  ob  dem  gooses  did'nt  put  down  de  udder  leg! 

(( ( Now,  you  lyin'  nigger, )  he  says,  raisin'  his  cane  ober  my  head,  ( I'll 
show  you  — )  ( Stop,  Marsa  John !)    I  hollered;  ( 'taint  fair,  'tain't  fair. ) 

(((Why  ain't  it  fair?)  says  he. 

((('Cause,)  says  I,  (you  did'nt  say  ((Shoo!))  to  de  goose  what  was 
on  de  table. )  )) 

Chad  laughed  until  he  choked. 

((And  did  he  thrash  you  ? )) 

((Marsa  John?  No,  sah.  He  laughed  loud  as  anybody;  an' 
den  dat  night  he  says  to  me  as  I  was  puttin'  some  wood  on  de  fire :  — 

(((Chad,  where  did  dat  leg  go?)  An'  so  I  ups  an'  tells  him  all 
about  Henny,  an'  how  I  was  lyin'  'cause  I  was  'feared  de  gal  would 
git  hurt,  an'  how  she  was  on'y  a-foolin'  thinkin'  it  was  my  goose; 
an'  den  de  ole  marsa  look  in  de  fire  for  a  long  time,  an'  den  he  says : 

(((Dat's  Colonel  Barbour's  Henny,  ain't  it,  Chad?) 

(((Yes,  Marsa,)  says  I. 

((Well,  de  next  mawnin'  he  had  his  black  horse  saddled,  an'  I  held 
the  stirrup  for  him  to  git  on,  an'  he  rode  ober  to  de  Barbour  planta- 
tion, an'  didn't  come  back  till  plumb  black  night.  When  he  come 
up  I  held  de. lantern  so  I  could  see  his  face,  for  I  wa'n't  easy  in  my 
mine  all  day.     But  it  was  all  bright  an'  shinin'  same  as  a'  angel's. 

(((Chad,)  he  says,  handin'  me  de  reins,  (I  bought  yo'  Henny 
dis  arternoon  from  Colonel  Barbour,  an'  she's  comin'  ober  to-morrow, 
an'  you  can  bofe  git  married  next  Sunday. ) » 


13537 


GOLDWIN   SMITH 
( 1823-1910) 


•HE  liberal  movement  in  the  politics  and  religious  thought  of 
the  nineteenth  century  was  well  represented  by  the  intellec- 
tual career  of  Goldwin  Smith.  Throughout  his  long  life  he 
was  ever  in  the  van  of  what  he  considered  the  progressive  forces  of 
the  time.  His  conception  of  progress,  as  primarily  a  moral  process, 
pervades  the  entire  body  of  his  writings  whether  he  is  dealing  with 
the  Canadian  question,  with  the  question  of  Home  Rule,  with  the 
condition  of  the  colonies,  or  with  the  tem- 
per of  the  Establishment.  So  convinced  was 
he  that  the  workings  of  the  moral  order 
exceed  in  strength  all  other  forms  of  power, 
that  he  measured  the  importance  and  dura- 
tion of  various  social  and  political  institu- 
tions by  the  degree  of  their  conformance  to 
this  order.  In  consequence  he  saw  disinte- 
gration where  others  saw  permanence ;  and 
degeneration  where  others  look  for  growth. 
The  charge  of  being  of  a  negative  and  de- 
structive spirit  has  been  frequently  brought 
against  him :  he  claims,  however,  by  the 
tacit  testimony  of  his  books  on  politics  and 
history,  the  privilege  of  a  prophet,  who  can 

foresee  reformation  only  through  the   intervening   spaces  of  disorder 
and  decay. 

The  fundamental  principle  underlying  his  judgments  of  contem- 
porary affairs  is  contained  in  his  early  lectures  on  the  <  Study  of 
History.  >  He  applies  the  principle  of  historical  development  —  the 
progress  of  mankind  through  the  efforts  of  individuals  —  to  present- 
day  matters.  To  understand  his  conception  of  history  is  to  under- 
stand to  a  degree  his  position  towards  the  events  of  his  time. 

«That  the  human  race  is  in  a  real  sense  one;  that  its  efforts  are  com- 
mon and  tend  in  some  measure  to  a  joint  result;  that  its  several  members  may 
stand  in  the  eye  of  their  Maker,  not  only  as  individual  agents,  but  as  con- 
tributors to  this  joint  result, —  is  a  doctrine  which  our  reason  perhaps  finds 
something  to  support,  and  which  our  hearts  readily  accept.  It  unites  us  not 
only  in  P3,Tnpathy,  but  iu  real   mterest,  with  the  generations  that  are  to  conn^ 


Goldwin  Smith 


^3538 


GOLDWIN   SMITH 


after  us  as  well  as  with  those  that  are  gone  before  us;  it  makes  each  genera- 
tion, each  man,  a  partaker  in  the  wealth  of  all:  it  encourages  us  to  sow  a  har- 
vest which  we  shall  reap,  not  with  our  own  hands  indeed,  but  by  the  hands  of 
those  that  come  after  us;  it  at  once  represses  selfish  ambition,  and  stimulates 
the  desire  of  earning  the  gratitude  of  our  kind;  it  strengthens  all  social  and 
regulates  all  personal  desires;  it  limits  —  and  by  limiting  sustains  —  effort, 
and  calms  the  passionate  craving  to  grasp  political  perfection  or  final  truth;  it 
fills  up  the  fragment,  gives  fruitfulness  to  effort  apparently  wasted,  and  covers 
present  failure  with  ultimate  success;  it  turns  the  death  of  States,  as  of  men, 
into  incidents  of  one  vast  life ;  and  quenches  the  melancholy  which  flows  from 
the  ruins  of  the  past, —  that  past  into  which  we  too  are  sinking,  just  when 
great  things  seem  about  to  come.>> 

It  is  this  dispassionate  spirit  of  world-citizenship,  this  ability  to 
<^  look  before  and  look  after,"  which  ever  caused  Goldwin  Smith  to  attach 
himself  permanently  to  no  party,  to  hold  fast  by  no  creed,  political  or 
religious.  His  manner  of  life  ever  fostered  this  cosmopolitanism  of 
thought  and  feeling.  He  was  by  birth  an  Englishman.  He  was  born  at 
Reading,  Berkshire,  August  13th,  1823;  was  educated  at  Eton,  and  at 
Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  where  he  was  graduated  with  high  honors 
in  1845;  subsequently  he  was  chosen  Fellow  and  tutor  of  University 
College.  In  1847  he  was  called  to  the  bar  at  Lincoln's  Inn.  In  1850, 
and  again  in  1854,  he  served  as  secretary  to  the  Royal  Commission 
of  University  Reform.  From  1858  to  1866  he  was  a  member  of  the 
Education  Commission,  whose  labors  resulted  in  the  Education  Bill  of 
1870.  At  the  same  period  he  was  Regius  Professor  of  Modern  History 
at  Oxford.  He  had  devoted  himself  early  in  his  career  to  the  study 
of  contemporary  politics.  In  1861  he  published  ^  Irish  History  and 
Irish  Character,'  in  which  he  endeavored  to  explain  the  events  of 
Ireland's  history  by  the  temperament  of  her  sons.  In  the  same  year 
he  published  the  ^Foundation  of  the  American  Colonies,*  and  two 
years  later  <The  Morality  of  the  Emancipation  Proclamation.'  He  had 
made  a  most  careful  investigation  of  the  causes  leading  to  the  Civil 
War;  he  understood  the  situation  better  perhaps  than  any  one  else  in 
England.  His  support  of  the  North  was  strong  and  persistent;  during 
the  period  of  the  "War,  his  letters  to  the  Daily  News  went  far  to  hold 
a  clear  picture  of  the  situation  before  English  readers.  As  was  usual 
with  him,  he  understood  the  importance  of  the  moral  question  under- 
lying the  political;  he  foresaw  the  triumph  of  the  Union,  because  it 
was  in  the  stream  of  the  tendency  towards  righteousness.  In  1865 
appeared  his  ^England  and  America,'  and  in  1866  <The  Civil  War  in 
America.'  In  1866  he  published  also  his  ^Lectures  on  the  Study  of 
History.'  These  are  of  great  value,  not  alone  for  their  princely  style: 
they  exhibit  a  clearness  of  insight  into  social  and  political  problems, 
and  into  the  laws  of  historical  development,  not  surpassed  by  any 
other  modern  historian.     Goldwin  Smith  assumes  that  history  cannc/ 


GOLDWIN   SMITH  13539 

be  studied  as  a  whole  until  the  moral  unity  of  the  race  is  thoroughly 
felt.  He  disclaims  the  theory  of  the  positive  school,  that  history 
is  governed  by  necessary  laws,  and  can  therefore  come  under  the 
domain  of  physical  science;  disclaims  it  on  the  ground  that  the  moral 
element  in  it  renders  it  just  beyond  the  calculations  of  science.  It 
is  made  up  of  the  actions  of  men,  and  must  be  read  in  the  light  of 
moral  rather  than  material  laws.  It  thus  becomes  the  highest  of  all 
studies, — the  study  of  man's  struggles  upward  from  the  beast  to 
the  god.  In  another  lecture  on  '■  Some  Supposed  Consequences  of  the 
Doctrine  of  Historical  Progress,^  he  endeavors  to  show  that  Christian- 
ity as  a  moral  power  has  been  ever  on  the  side  of  civilization  and 
advancement:  where  it  has  conflicted  with  progress,  its  dogmatic,  not 
its  moral  quality  has  been  in  the  ascendency. 

In  1868  Professor  Smith  accepted  the  chair  of  English  History  in 
Cornell  University;  in  1869  he  published  <  Relations  between  Eng- 
land and  America,*  and  a  <  Short  History  of  England.*  In  1871  he 
removed  to  Toronto,  where  he  was  made  a  member  of  the  senate  of 
Toronto  University.  From  1872  until  1874  he  edited  the  Canadian 
Monthly;  he  was  then  for  a  time  the  editor  of  the  Bystander,  a  politi- 
cal weekly.  After  the  discontinuance  of  this  paper,  he  edited  the 
Week  until   1881. 

In  1879  he  published  <  Political  Destiny  of  Canada,*  and  in  1891 
*  Canada  and  the  Canadian  Question.*  He  advocates  the  annexation 
of  Canada  to  the  United  States.  He  bases  his  arguments  for  annexa- 
tion upon  what  he  believes  is  inevitable  in  the  course  of  national 
development, —  the  union  of  the  English-speaking  races  on  the  North- 
American  continent.  He  is  moreover  a  disbeliever  in  England's  impe- 
rialism :  he  does  not  favor  the  colonial  system,  being  of  opinion  that 
the  greatness  of  a  nation  does  not  depend  upon  the  extent  of  the 
territory  controlled  by  it;  he  believes,  moreover,  that  England  must 
lose  her  colonies,  as  they  grow  in  strength  and  in  individuality. 

In  1880  he  published  a  <  Life  of  Cowper.*  It  is  not  equal  to 
his  <  Life  of  Jane  Austen  * ;  perhaps  because  he  was  more  in  sympathy 
with  the  novelist's  common-sense  and  impersonal  outlook  upon  life, 
than  with  the  hypersensitive  spirit  of  the  gentle  poet.  In  1881 
appeared  ^Lectures  and  Essays*;  in  1882  <  Conduct  of  England  to 
Ireland*;  in  1SS3  *  False  Hopes,  or  Fallacies,  Socialistic  and  Semi- 
Socialistic*;  and  in  1884  ^A  Trip  to  England.*  In  1894  he  published 
(Essays  on  Questions  of  the  Day,)  and  in  1899,  (The  United  Kingdom, 
a  Political  History, )  in  which  his  old  skill  in  presentation  and  the 
strength  of  his  convictions  were  once  more  exhibited.  He  was  over 
seventy  years  of  age,  but  his  hand  had  not  lost  its  cunning,  nor  was  his 
natural  force  abated.  (In  the  Court  of  History,  the  South  African  War> 
(1902)  and   (Commonwealth  and  Empire)     (1902)  deal  with  questions 


13540  GOLDWIN    SMITH 

then  predominant.  (My  Memory  of  Gladstone)  (1904)  passed  through 
another  edition  in  1909. 

In  his  books  (Guesses  at  the  Riddle  of  Existence,)  (The  Founder 
of  Christendom)  (1903);  (Lines  of  Religious  Inquiry)  (1904);  (In 
Quest  of  Light)  (1906),  and  (No  Refuge  but  in  Truth)  (1908),  he  touches 
on  some  of  the  great  religious  problems  of  the  day, —  touches  on 
them  merely  as  one  who  cannot  afford  to  linger  long  over  what  can 
after  all,  as  he  believes,  be  solved  only  in  the  domain  of  the  moral 
nature,  not  of  the  intellectual  life.  His  faith,  like  the  faith  of  many 
of  his  contemporaries,  would  express  itself  in  conduct  rather  than 
in  the  subtleties  of  creed.  For  that  reason  he  is  drawn  to  the  con- 
templation of  Christ  as  being  in  very  truth  the  Light  of  the  moral 
world. 

Of  Goldwin  Smith's  position  in  the  domain  of  literature  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  speak  with  justice.  He  was  less  a  man  of  letters  than  a  man 
of  affairs;  yet,  as  a  writer  of  sinewy  English  prose  he  was  not  surpassed 
among  his  contemporaries.  He  handled  words  like  delicate  instru- 
ments which  may  assist  to  the  birth  or  may  deal  death.  For  this 
reason,  if  for  no  other,  he  was  a  formidable  adversary,  a  trustworthy 
champion.  His  English  is  the  English  of  the  scholar,  whose  taste 
and  character  have  been  formed  by  contact  with  the  world  as  well 
as  with  Homer,  Lucretius,  and  Virgil.  His  culture  as  a  poet  is  shown 
in  some  admirable  versions  of  Horace.  Of  the  reasonableness  of  his 
opinions  in  religion  and  politics,  future  generations  alone  can  judge 
with  fairness.  He  was  thoroughly  representative  at  least  of  a  transi- 
tional age  in  the  political  and  religious  development  of  the  modern 
world.     He  died  at  Reading,   England,  on  August  23,    1910. 


JOHN   PYM 

From  < Three  English  Statesmen* 


PYM  had  been  second  only  to  Sir  John  Eliot  as  a  leader  of 
the  patriot  party  in  the  reign  of  James.  He  was  one  of  the 
twelve  deputies  of  the  Commons  when  James  cried,  with 
insight  as  well  as  spleen,  "Set  twal  chairs:  here  be  twal  kings 
coming.^*  He  had  stood  among  the  foremost  of  those  "evil- 
tempered  spirits*^  who  protested  that  the  liberties  of  Parliament 
were  not  the  favors  of  the  Crown,  but  the  birthright  of  English- 
men; and  who  for  so  doing  were  imprisoned  without  law.  He 
had  resolved,  as  he  said,  that  he  would  rather  suffer  for  speaking 
the  truth,  than  the  truth  should  suffer  for  want  of  his  speaking. 
His  greatness   had   increased   in   the  struggle  against   Charles   L 


GOLDWIN   SMITH  13541 

He  had  been  one  of  the  chief  managers  of  the  impeachment  of 
Buckingham;  and  for  that  service  to  public  justice  he  had  again 
suffered  a  glorious  imprisonment.  He  had  accused  Manwaring; 
he  had  raised  a  voice  of  power  against  the  Romanizing  intrigues 
of  Laud.  In  those  days  he  and  Strafford  were  dear  friends, 
and  fellow-soldiers  in  the  same  cause.  But  when  the  death  of 
Buckingham  left  the  place  of  First  Minister  vacant,  Strafford 
sought  an  interview  with  Pym  at  Greenwich;  and  when  they  met, 
began  to  talk  against  dangerous  courses,  and  to  hint  at  advan- 
tageous overtures  to  be  made  by  the  court.  Pym  cut  him  short: 
^^You  need  not  use  all  this  art  to  tell  me  that  you  have  a  mind 
to  leave  us.  But  remember  what  I  tell  you, —  you  are  going  to 
be  undone.  And  remember  also  that  though  you  leave  us,  I  will 
never  leave  you  while  your  head  is  upon  your  shoulders ! "  Such 
at  least  was  the  story  current  in  the  succeeding  age,  of  the  last 
interview  between  the  Great  Champion  of  Freedom  and  the 
Great  Apostate. 

Pym  was  a  Somersetshire  gentleman  of  good  family;  and  it 
was  from  good  families  —  such  families  at  least  as  do  not  pro- 
duce Jacobins  —  that  most  of  the  leaders  of  this  revolution  sprang. 
I  note  it,  not  to  claim  for  principle  the  patronage  of  birth  and 
wealth,  but  to  show  how  strong  that  principle  must  have  been 
which  could  thus  move  birth  and  wealth  away  from  their  natural 
bias.  It  is  still  true,  not  in  the  ascetic  but  in  the  moral  sense, 
that  it  is  hard  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven;  and  when  we  see  rich  men  entering  into  the  kingdom 
of  heaven,  hazarding  the  enjoyment  of  wealth  for  the  sake  of 
principle,  we  may  know  that  it  is  no  common  age.  Oxford  was 
the  place  of  Pym's  education;  and  there  he  was  distinguished  not 
only  by  solid  acquirements,  but  by  elegant  accomplishments,  so 
that  an  Oxford  poet  calls  him  the  favorite  of  Apollo.  High  cult- 
Lire  is  now  rather  in  disgrace  in  some  quarters;  and  not  without 
a  color  of  reason,  as  unbracing  the  sinews  of  action,  and  destroy- 
ing sympathy  with  the  people.  Nevertheless,  the  universities 
produced  the  great  statesmen  and  the  great  warriors  of  the  Com- 
monwealth. If  the  Oxford  of  Pym,  of  Hampden,  and  of  Blake, 
the  Oxford  of  Wvcliffe,  the  Oxford  where  in  still  earlier  times 
those  principles  were  nursed  which  gave  us  the  Great  Charter  and 
the  House  of  Commons  — if  this  Oxford,  I  say,  now  seems  by  her 
political  bearing  to  dishonor  learning,  and  by  an  ignoble  choice 
does  a  wrong. to  the   nation   which    Lancashire  is  called   upon   to 


j-e  .2  GOLDWIN   SMITH 

redress,  —  believe  me,  it  is  not  the  university  which  thus  offends, 
but  a  power  alien  to  th'e  university  and  alien  to  learning,  to 
which  the  university  is,  and  unless  you  rescue  her,  will  continue 
to  be,  a  slave. 

It  is  another  point  of  difference  between  the  English  and  the 
French  revolutions,  that  the  leaders  of  the  English  Revolution 
were  as  a  rule  good  husbands  and  fathers,  in  whom  domestic 
affection  was  the  root  of  public  virtue.  Pym,  after  being  for 
some  time  in  public  life,  married,  and  after  his  marriage  lived 
six  years  in  retirement;  a  part  of  training  as  necessary  as  action 
to  the  depth  of  character  and  the  power  of  sustained  thought 
which  are  the  elements  of  greatness.  At  the  end  of  the  six  years 
his  wife  died,  and  he  took  no  other  wife  but  his  country. 

There  were  many  elements  in  the  patriot  party,  united  at  first, 
afterward  severed  from  each  other  by  the  fierce  winnowing-fan 
of  the  struggle,  and  marking  by  their  successive  ascendency  the 
changing  phases  of  the  Revolution:  Constitutional  Monarchists, 
aristocratic  Republicans,  Republicans  thorough-going,  Protestant 
Episcopalians,  Presbyterians,  Independents,  and  in  the  abyss  be- 
neath them  all  the  Anabaptists,  the  Fifth  Monarchy  men,  and  the 
Levelers.  Pym  was  a  friend  of  constitutional  monarchy  in  poli- 
tics, a  Protestant  Episcopalian  in  religion;  against  a  despot,  but 
for  a  king;  against  the  tyranny  and  political  power  of  the  bish- 
ops, but  satisfied  with  that  form  of  church  government.  He  was 
no  fanatic  and  no  ascetic.  He  was  genial,  social,  even  convivial. 
His  enemies  held  him  up  to  the  hatred  of  the  sectaries  as  a  man 
of  pleasure.  As  the  statesman  and  orator  of  the  less  extreme 
party,  and  of  the  first  period  of  the  Revolution,  he  is  the  Eng- 
lish counterpart  of  Mirabeau,  so  far  as  a  Christian  patriot  can 
be  the  counterpart  of  a  Voltairean  debauchee. 

Nor  is  he  altogether  unlike  Mirabeau  in  the  style  of  his 
eloquence;  our  better  appreciation  of  which,  as  well  as  our  bet- 
ter knowledge  of  Pym  and  of  this  the  heroic  age  of  our  history 
in  general,  we  owe  to  the  patriotic  and  truly  noble  diligence  of 
Mr,  John  Forster,  from  whose  researches  no  small  portion  of  my 
materials  for  this  lecture  is  derived.  Pym's  speeches  of  course 
are  seventeenth-century  speeches:  stately  in  diction,  somewhat 
like  homilies  in  their  divisions,  full  of  learning,  full  of  Script- 
ure (which  then,  be  it  remembered,  was  a  fresh  spring  of  new 
thought);  full  of  philosophic  passages  which  might  have  come 
from  the  pen  of  Hooker  or  of  Bacon.     But  they  sometimes  strike 


GOLDWIN  SMITH  T-^r^-? 

13543 

the  great  strokes  for  which  Mirabeau  was  famous.  Buckingham 
had  pleaded,  to  the  charge  of  enriching  himself  by  the  sale  of 
honors  and  offices,  that  so  far  from  having  enriched  himself  he 
was  ^100,000  in  debt.  "If  this  be  true,**  replied  Pym,  "how  can 
we  hope  to  satisfy  his  immense  prodigality;  if  false,  how  can 
we  hope  to  satisfy  his  covetousness  ?  "  In  the  debate  on  the  Peti- 
tion of  Right,  when  Secretary  Cooke  desired  in  the  name  of  the 
King  to  know  whether  they  would  take  the  King's  word  for  the 
observance  of  their  liberties  or  not,  "  there  was  silence  for  a 
good  space  " :  none  liking  to  reject  the  King's  word,  all  knowing 
what  that  word  was  worth.  The  silence  was  broken  by  Pym, 
who  rose  and  said,  "We  have  his  Majesty's  coronation  oath  to 
maintain  the  laws  of  England:  what  need  we  then  to  take  his 
word  ? "  And  the  secretary  desperately  pressing  his  point,  and 
asking  what  foreigners  would  think  if  the  people  of  England 
refused  to  trust  their  King's  word,  Pym  rejoined,  "  Truly,  Mr. 
Secretary,  I  am  of  the  same  opinion  that  I  was,  that  the  King's 
oath  is  as  powerful  as  his  word.**  In  the  same  debate  the  court- 
iers prayed  the  House  to  leave  entire  his  Majesty's  sovereign 
power:  a  Stuart  phrase,  meaning  the  power  of  the  king,  when 
he  deemed  it.  expedient,  to  break  the  law.  "I  am  not  able,** 
was  Pym's  reply,  "  to  speak  to  this  question.  I  know  not  what 
it  is.  All  our  petition  is  for  the  laws  of  England;  and  this 
power  seems  to  be  another  power  distinct  from  the  power  of  the 
law.  I  know  how  to  add  sovereign  to  the  King's  person,  but  not 
to  his  power.  We  cannot  leave  to  him  a  sovereign  power,  for 
we   never  were   possessed  of  it.** 

The  English  Revolution  was  a  revolution  of  principle,  but  of 
principle  couched  in  precedent.  What  the  philosophic  salon  was 
to  the  French  leaders  of  opinion,  that  the  historical  and  anti- 
quarian library  of  Sir  Robert  Cotton  was  to  the  English.  And 
of  the  group  of  illustrious  men  who  gathered  in  that  library'-, 
none  had  been  a  deeper  student  of  its  treasures  than  Pym.  His 
speeches  and   State  papers  are  the  proof. 

When  the  Parliament  had  met,  Pym  was  the  first  to  rise. 
We  know  his  appearance  from  his  portrait:  a  portly  form,  which 
a  court  waiting-woman  called  that  of  an  ox;  a  forehead  so 
high  that  lampooners  compared  it  to  a  shuttle;  the  dress  of  a 
gentleman  of  the  time, —  for  not  to  the  cavaliers  alone  belonged 
that  picturesque  costume  and  those  pointed  beards  which  fur- 
nish  the  real   explanation  of  the  fact  that  all  women  are  Tories. 


12^44  GOLDWIN    SMITH 

Into  the  expectant  and  wavering,  though  ardent,  minds  of  the 
inexperienced  assembly  he  poured,  with  the  authority  of  a  veteran 
chief,  a  speech  which  at  once  fixed  their  thoughts,  and  possessed 
them  with  their  mission.  It  was  a  broad,  complete,  and  earnest, 
though  undeclamatory,  statement  of  the  abuses  which  they  had 
come  to  reform.  For  reform,  though  for  root-and-branch  reform, 
not  for  revolution,  the  Short  Parliament  came;  and  Charles  might 
even  now  have  made  his  peace  with  his  people.  But  Charles  did 
not  yet  see  the  truth :  the  truth  could  never  pierce  through  the 
divinity  that  hedged  round  the  king.  The  Commons  insisted  that 
redress  of  grievances  should  go  before  supply.  In  a  moment 
of  madness,  or  what  is  the  same  thing,  of  compliance  with  the 
counsels  of  Laud,  Charles  dissolved  the  Parliament,  imprisoned 
several  of  its  members,  and  published  his  reasons  in  a  proclama- 
tion full  of  despotic  doctrine.  The  friends  of  the  Crown  were 
sad,  its  enemies  very  joyful.  Now,  to  the  eye  of  history,  begins 
to  rise  that  scaffold  before  Whitehall. 

Once  more  Charles  and  Strafford  tried  their  desperate  arms 
against  the  Scotch;  and  once  more  their  soldiers  refused  to  fight. 
Pym  and  Hampden,  meanwhile,  sure  of  the  issue,  were  preparing 
their  party  and  the  nation  for  the  decisive  struggle.  Their  head- 
quarters were  at  Pym's  house,  in  Gray's  Inn  Lane;  but  meetings 
were  held  also  at  the  houses  of  leaders  in  the  country,  especially 
for  correspondence  with  the  -Scotch,  with  whom  these  patriot 
traitors  were  undoubtedly  in  league.  A  private  press  was  actively 
at  work.  Pym  was  not  only  the  orator  of  his  party,  but  its  soul 
and  centre;  he  knew  how  not  only  to  propagate  his  opinions  with 
words  of  power,  but  to  organize  the  means  of  victory.  And  now 
Charles,  in  extremity,  turned  to  the  Middle  Ages  for  one  expedi- 
ent more,  and  called  a  Great  Council  of  Peers,  according  to  Plan- 
tagenet  precedents,  at  York.  Pym  flew  at  once  to  York,  caused 
a  petition  for  a  Parliament  to  be  signed  by  the  peers  of  his  party 
there,  and  backed  it  with  petitions  from  the  people,  one  of  them 
signed  by  ten  thousand  citizens  of  London.  This  first  great 
wielder  of  public  opinion  in  England  was  the  inventor  of  organ- 
ized agitation  by  petition.  The  King  surrendered,  and  called  a 
Parliament.  Pym  and  Hampden  rode  over  the  country,  urging 
the  constituencies  to  do  their  duty.  The  constituencies  did  their 
duty  as  perhaps  they  had  never  done  it  before  and  have  never 
done  it  since.  They  sent  up  the  noblest  body  of  men  that 
ever  sat  in  the  councils  of  a  nation.     The  force  of  the  agitation 


GOLDWIN   SMITH  13545 

triumphed  for  the  moment,  as  it  did  again  in  1832,  over  all  those 
defects  in  the  system  of  representation  which  prevail  over  the 
public  interest  and  the  public  sentiment  in  ordinar}^  times.  The 
Long  Parliament  met,  while  round  it  the  tide  of  national  feeling 
swelled  and  surged,  the  long-pent-up  voices  of  national  resent- 
ment broke  forth.  It  met  not  for  reform,  but  for  revolution. 
The  King  did  not  ride  to  it  in  state :  he  slunk  to  it  in  his  private 
barge,  like  a  vanquished  and  a  doomed  man. 

Charles  had  called  to  him  Strafford.  The  earl  knew  his  dan- 
ger; but  the  King  had  pledged  to  him  the  royal  word  that  not  a 
hair  of  his  head  should  be  touched.  He  came  foiled,  broken  by 
disease,  but  still  resolute;  prepared  to  act  on  the  aggressive,  per- 
haps to  arraign  the  leaders  of  the  Commons  for  treasonable  cor- 
respondence with  the  Scotch.  But  he  had  to  deal,  in  his  friend 
and  coadjutor  of  former  days,  with  no  mere  rhetorician,  but  with 
a  man  of  action  as  sagacious  and  as  intrepid  as  himself.  Pym 
at  once  struck  a  blow  which  proved  him  a  master  of  revolution- 
Announcing  to  the  Commons  that  he  had  weighty  matter  to 
impart,  he  moved  that  the  doors  should  be  closed.  When  they 
were  opened  he  carried  up  to  the  Lords  the  impeachment  of  the 
Earl  of  Strafford.  The  earl  cam.e  down  to  the  House  of  Lords 
that  day  with  his  brow  of  imperial  gloom,  his  impetuous  step, 
his  tones  and  gestures  of  command:  but  scarcely  had  he  entered 
the  House  when  he  found  that  power  had  departed  from  him; 
and  the  terrible  grand  vizier  of  government  by  prerogative  went 
away  a  fallen  man,  none  unbonneting  to  him  in  whose  presence 
an  hour  before  no  man  would  have  stood  covered.  The  speech 
by  which  Pym  swept  the  House  on  to  this  bold  move,  so  that,  as 
Clarendon  says,  **  nt)t  one  man  was  found  to  stop  the  torrent,"  is 
known  only  from  Clarendon's  outline.  But  that  outline  shows 
how  the  speaker  filled  the  thoughts  of  his  hearers  with  a  picture 
of  the  tyranny,  before  he  named  its  chief  author,  the  Earl  of 
Strafford;  and  how  he  blended  with  the  elements  of  indignation 
some  lighter  passages  of  the  earl's  vanity  and  amours,  to  mingle 
indignation  with  contempt  and  to  banish  fear. 

Through  the  report  of  the  Scotch  Commissioner  Baillie,  we 
see  the  great  trial,  to  which  that  of  Warren  Hastings  was  a  par- 
allel in  splendor,  but  no  parallel  in  interest:  Westminster  Hall 
filled  with  the  Peers  —  the  Commons  —  the  foreign  nobility,  come 
to  learn  if  they  could  a  lesson  in  English  politics  —  the  ladies  of 
quality,  whose  hearts   (and  we  can    pardon   them)    were  all    with 


13546 


GOLDWIN  SMITH 


the  great  criminal  who  made  so  gallant  and  skillful  a  fight  for 
life,  and  of  whom  it  was  said  that  like  Ulysses  he  had  not 
beauty,  but  he  had  the  eloquence  which  moved  a  goddess  to  love. 
Among  the  mass  of  the  audience  the  interest,  intense  at  first, 
flagged  as  the  immense  process  went  on;  and  eating,  drinking, 
loud  talking,  filled  the  intervals  of  the  trial.  But  there  was  one 
whose  interest  did  not  flag.  The  royal  throne  was  set  for  the 
King  in  his  place;  but  the  King  was  not  there.  He  was  with  his 
queen  in  a  private  gallery,  the  latticework  of  which,  in  his  eager- 
ness to  hear,  he  broke  through  with  his  own  hands.  And  there 
he  heard,  among  other  things,  these  words  of  Pym :  "  If  the  his- 
tories of  Eastern  countries  be  pursued,  whose  princes  order  their 
affairs  according  to  the  mischievous  principles  of  the  Earl  of 
Strafford,  loose  and  absolved  from  all  rules  of  government,  they 
will  be  found  to  be  frequent  in  combustions,  full  of  massacres 
and  of  the  tragical  ends  of  princes.'^ 

I  need  not  make  selections  from  a  speech  so  well  known  as 
that  of  Pym  on  the  trial  of  Strafford.  But  hear  one  or  two 
answers  to  fallacies  which  are  not  quite  dead  yet.  To  the  charge 
of  arbitrary  government  in  Ireland,  Strafford  had  pleaded  that 
the  Irish  were  a  conquered  nation.  "  They  were  a  conquered 
nation, '*  cries  Pym.  ^*  There  cannot  be  a  word  more  pregnant  or 
fruitful  in  treason  than  that  word  is.  There  are  few  nations 
in  the  world  that  have  not  been  conquered,  and  no  doubt  but 
the  conqueror  may  give  what  law  he  pleases  to  those  that  are 
conquered;  but  if  the  succeeding  pacts  and  agreements  do  not 
limit  and  restrain  that  right,  what  people  can  be  secure  ?  Eng- 
land hath  been  conquered,  and  Wales  hath  been  conquered;  and 
by  this  reason  will  be  in  little  better  case  than  Ireland.  If  the 
king  by  the  right  of  a  conqueror  gives  laws  to  his  people,  shall 
not  the  people,  by  the  same  reason,  be  restored  to  the  right  of 
the  conquered  to  recover  their  liberty  if  they  can  ?  '*  Strafford 
had  alleged  good  intentions  as  an  excuse  for  his  evil  counsels. 
^* Sometimes,  my  lords,''  says  Pym,  "good  and  evil,  truth  and 
falsehood,  lie  so  near  together  that  they  are  hard  to  be  dis- 
tinguished. Matters  hurtful  and  dangerous  may  be  accompanied 
with  such  circumstances  as  may  make  them  appear  useful  and 
convenient.  But  where  the  matters  propounded  are  evil  in  their 
own  nature,  such  as  the  matters  are  wherewith  the  Earl  of  Straf- 
ford is  charged,  as  to  break  public  faith  and  to  subvert  laws  and 
government,  they  can   never  be  justified  by  any  intentions,  how 


GOLDWIN   SMITH  13547 

good  soever  they  be  pretended.**  Again,  to  the  plea  that  it  was 
a  time  of  great  danger  and  necessity,  Pym  replies:  —  "If  there 
were  any  necessity,  it  was  of  his  own  making:  he,  by  his  evil 
counsel,  had  brought  the  King  into  a  necessity;  and  by  no  rules 
of  justice  can  be  allowed  to  gain  this  advantage  by  his  own  fault, 
as  to  make  that  a  ground  of  his  justification  which  is  a  great 
part  of  his  offense.** 

Once,  we  are  told,  while  Pym  was  speaking,  his  eyes  met 
those  of  Strafford ;  and  the  speaker  grew  confused,  lost  the  thread 
of  his  discourse,  broke  down  beneath  the  haggard  glance  of  his 
old  friend.     Let  us  never  glorify  revolution! 


THE   PURITAN   COLONIES 
From  < Lectures  on  the  Study  of  History' 

WITH  popular  government,  the  Puritans  established  popular 
education.  They  are  the  great  authors  of  the  system  of 
common  schools.  They  founded  a  college  too,  and  that 
in  dangerous  and  pinching  times.  Nor  did  their  care  fail,  nor 
is  it  failing,  to  produce  an  intelligent  people.  A  great  literature 
is  a  thing  of  slow  growth  everywhere.  The  growth  of  Ameri- 
can literature  was  retarded  at  first  by  Puritan  severity,  which 
forced  even  philosophy  to  put  on  a  theological  garb,  and  veiled 
the  Necessarianism  of  Mr.  Mill  in  the  Calvinism  of  Jonathan  Ed- 
wards. Now,  perhaps,  its  growth  is  retarded  by  the  sudden  burst 
of  commercial  activity  and  wealth,  the  development  of  which  our 
monopolies  long  restrained.  One  day,  perhaps,  this  wealth  may 
be  used  as  nobly  as  the  wealth  of  Florence;  but  for  some  time 
it  will  be  spent  in  somewhat  coarse  pleasures  by  those  who  have 
suddenly  won  it.  It  is  spent  in  somewhat  coarse  pleasures  by 
those  who  have  suddenly  won  it  at  Liverpool  and  Manchester, 
as  well  as  at  New  York.  One  praise,  at  any  rate,  American  lit- 
erature may  claim :  it  is  pure.  Here  the  spirit  of  the  Pilgrims 
still  holds  its  own.  The  public  opinion  of  a  free  country  is  a 
restraining  as  well  as  a  moving  power.  On  the  other  hand, 
despotism,  political  or  ecclesiastical,  does  not  extinguish  human 
liberty.  That  it  may  take  away  the  liberty  of  reason,  it  gives 
the  liberty  of  sense.  It  says  to  man.  Do  what  you  will,  sin  and 
shrive  yourself;  but  eschew  political  improvement,  and  turn  away 
your  thoughts  from  truth. 


J3548 


GOLDWIN   SMITH 


The  history  of  the  Puritan  Church  in  New  England  is  one  of 
enduring  glory,  of  transient  shame.  Of  transient  shame,  because 
there  was  a  moment  of  intolerance  and  persecution;  of  enduring 
glory,  because  intolerance  and  persecution  instantly  gave  way 
to  perfect  liberty  of  conscience  and  free  allegiance  to  the  truth. 
The  founders  of  New  England  were  Independents.  When  they 
went  forth,  their  teacher  had  solemnly  charged  them  to  follow 
him  no  farther  than  they  had  seen  him  follow  his  Master.  He 
had  pointed  to  the  warning  example  of  churches  which  fancied 
that  because  Calvin  and  Luther  were  great  and  shining  lights 
in  their  times,  therefore  there  could  be  no  light  vouchsafed  to 
man  after  theirs.  "  I  beseech  you  remember  it :  it  is  an  article  of 
your  Church  covenant  that  you  be  ready  to  receive  whatever 
truth  shall  be  made  known  to  you  from  the  written  word  of  God." 
It  was  natural  that  the  Puritan  settlement  should  at  first  be  a 
church  rather  than  a  State.  To  have  given  a  share  in  its  lands 
or  its  political  franchise  to  those  who  were  not  of  its  communion 
would  have  been  to  make  the  receiver  neither  rich  nor  powerful, 
and  the  giver,  as  he  might  well  think,  poor  and  weak  indeed. 
But  the  Communion  grew  into  an  Establishment;  and  the  Puri- 
tan Synod,  as  well  as  the  Council  of  Trent,  must  needs  forget 
that  it  was  the  child  of  change,  and  build  its  barrier,  though 
not  a  very  unyielding  one,  across  the  river  which  flows  forever. 
Rhode  Island,  Connecticut,  New  Hampshire,  were  partly  seces- 
sions from  Massachusetts,  led  by  those  who  longed  for  perfect 
freedom;  and  in  fairness  to  Massachusetts,  it  must  be  said  that 
among  those  seceders  were  some  in  whose  eyes  freedom  herself 
was  scarcely  free.  The  darkness  of  the  Middle  Ages  must  bear 
the  blame  if  not  a  few  were  dazzled  by  the  sudden  return  of 
light.  The  name  of  Providence,  the  capital  of  Rhode  Island, 
is  the  thank-offering  of  Roger  Williams,  to  whose  wayward  and 
disputatious  spirit  much  may  be  forgiven  if  he  first  clearly  pro- 
claimed, and  first  consistently  practiced,  the  perfect  doctrine  of 
liberty  of  conscience,  the  sole  guarantee  for  real  religion,  the  sole 
trustworthy  guardian  of  the  truth.  That  four  Quakers  should 
have  suffered  death  in  a  colony  founded  by  fugitives  from  perse- 
cution, is  a  stain  on  the  history  of  the  free  churches  of  America, 
like  the  stain  on  the  robe  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  like  the  stain  on 
the  escutcheon  of  the  Black  Prince.  It  is  true  there  was  no  In- 
quisition, no  searching  of  conscience;  that  the  persecutors  warned 
their  victims  away,  and   sought  to  be  quit  of  them,  not  to  take 


GOLDWIN   SMITH  13549 

their  blood;  that  the  Quakers  thrust  themselves  on  their  fate 
in  their  frenzied  desire  for  martyrdom.  All  this  at  most  ren- 
ders less  deep  by  one  degree  the  dye  of  religious  murder.  The 
weapon  was  instantly  wrested  from  the  hand  of  fanaticism  by  the 
humane  instinct  of  a  free  people ;  and  the  blood  of  those  four  vic- 
tims sated  in  the  New  World  the  demon  who  in  the  Old  World, 
between  persecutions  and  religious  wars,  has  drunk  the  blood  of 
millions,  and  is  scarcely  sated  yet.  If  the  robe  of  religion  in  the 
New  World  was  less  rich  than  in  the  Old,  it  was  all  but  pure  of 
those  red  stains,  compared  with  which  the  stains  upon  the  robe 
of  worldly  ambition,  scarlet  though  they  be,  are  white  as  wool. 
In  the  New  World  there  was  no  Inquisition,  no  St.  Bartholomew, 
no  Thirty  Years'  War;  in  the  New  World  there  was  no  Vol- 
taire. If  we  would  do  Voltaire  justice,  criminal  and  fatal  as  his 
destructive  levity  was,  we  have  only  to  read  his  *■  Cry  of  Inno- 
cent Blood, ^  and  we  shall  see  that  the  thing  he  assailed  was  not 
Christianity,  much  less  God.  The  American  sects,  indeed,  soon 
added  to  the  number  of  those  variations  of  the  Protestant  churches, 
which,  contrasted  with  the  majestic  unity  of  Rome,  furnished  a 
proud  argument  to  Bossuet.  Had  Bossuet  lived  to  see  what 
came  forth  at  the  Revolution  from  under  the  unity  of  the  Church 
of  France,  he  might  have  doubted  whether  unity  was  so  united; 
aS;  on  the  other  hand,  if  he  had  seen  the  practical  union  of  the 
free  churches  of  America  for  the  weightier  matters  of  religion, 
which  Tocqueville  observed,  he  might  have  doubted  whether 
variation  was  so  various.  It  would  have  been  too  much  to  ask 
a  Bossuet  to  consider  whether,  looking  to  the  general  dealings  of 
Providence  with  man,  the  variations  of  free  and  conscientious 
inquirers  are  an  absolute  proof  that  free  and  conscientious  inquiry 
is  not  the  road  to  religious  truth. 

In  Maryland,  Roman  Catholicism  itself,  having  tasted  of  the 
cup  it  had  made  others  drink  to  the  dregs,  and  being  driven  to 
the  asylum  of  oppressed  consciences,  proclaimed  the  principle  of 
toleration.  In  Maryland  the  Church  of  Alva  and  Torquemada 
grew,  bloodless  and  blameless;  and  thence  it  has  gone  forth,  as 
it  was  in  its  earlier  and  more  apostolic  hour,  to  minister  to  the 
now  large  Roman  Catholic  population  of  the  United  States,  what- 
ever of  good  and  true,  in  the  great  schism  of  humanity,  may 
have  remained  on  the  worse  and  falser  side.  For  in  Maryland 
it  had  no  overgrown  wealth  and  power  to  defend  against  the 
advance  of  truth.      Bigotry,  the  mildest  of  all  vices,  has  the  worst 


,3550  GOLDWIN   SMITH 

things  laid  to  her  charge.  That  wind  of  free  discipline,  which, 
to  use  Bacon's  image,  winnows  the  .chaff  of  error  from  the  grain 
of  truth,  is  in  itself  welcome  to  man  as  the  breeze  of  evening. 
It  is  when  it  threatens  to  winnow  away,  not  the  chaff  of  error 
alone,  but  princely  bishoprics  of  Strasburg  and  Toledo,  that  its 
breath  becomes  pestilence,  and  Christian  love  is  compelled  to 
torture  and  burn  the  infected  sheep  in  order  to  save  from  infec- 
tion the  imperiled  flock. 

There  have  been  wild  religious  sects  in  America.  But  cannot 
history  show  sects  as  wild  in  the  Old  World  ?  Is  not  Mormonism 
itself  fed  by  the  wild  apocalyptic  visions,  and  the  dreams  of  a 
kinder  and  happier  social  state,  which  haunt  the  peasantry  in  the 
more  neglected  parts  of  our  own  country  ?  Have  not  the  wildest 
and  most  fanatical  sects  in  history  arisen  when  the  upper  classes 
have  turned  religion  into  policy,  and  left  the  lower  classes,  who 
knew  nothing  of  policy,  to  guide  or  misguide  themselves  into 
the  truth  ?  New  England  was  fast  peopled  by  the  flower  of  the 
Puritan  party,  and  the  highest  Puritan  names  were  blended  with 
its  history.  Among  its  elective  governors  was  Vane,  even  then 
wayward  as  pure,  even  then  suspected  of  being  more  republican 
than  Puritan.  It  saw  also  the  darker  presence  of  Hugh  Peters. 
While  the  day  went  hard  with  freedom  and  the  Protestant  cause 
in  England,  the  tide  set  steadily  westward;  it  turned,  when  the 
hour  of  retaliation  came,  to  the  great  Armageddon  of  West- 
minster and  Naseby;  after  the  Restoration  it  set  to  the  West 
again.  In  New  England,  Puritanism  continued  to  reign  with  all 
that  was  solemn,  austere,  strange  in  its  spirit,  manners,  lan- 
guage, garb,  when  in  England  its  dominion,  degenerating  into 
tyranny,  had  met  with  a  half-merited  overthrow.  In  New  Eng- 
land three  of  the  judges  of  Charles  I.  found  a  safer  refuge  than 
Holland  could  afford;  and  there  one  of  them  lived  to  see  the 
scales  once  more  hung  out  in  heaven,  the  better  part  of  his  own 
cause  triumphant  once,  more,  and  William  sit  on  the  Protector's 
throne. 

Among  the  emigrants  were  clergymen,  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
scholars,  high-born  men  and  women ;  for  in  that  moving  age  the 
wealthiest  often  vied  with  the  poorest  in  indifference  to  worldly 
interest  and  devotion  to  a  great  cause.  Even  peers  of  the  Puri- 
tan party  thought  of  becoming  citizens  of  Massachusetts,  but  had 
enough  of  the  peer  in  them  to  desire  still  to  have  a  hereditary 
seat  in   the   councils   of   the   State.     Massachusetts  answered  this 


n 


GOLDWIN   SMITH  13551 

demand  by  the  hand  of  one  who  had  himself  made  a  great  sacri- 
fice, and  without  republican  bluster:  "When  God  blesseth  any 
branch  of  any  noble  or  generous  family  with  a  spirit  and  gifts  fit 
for  government,  it  would  be  a  taking  of  God's  name  in  vain  to 
put  such  a  talent  under  a  bushel,  and  a  sin  against  the  honor 
of  magistracy  to  neglect  such  in  our  public  elections.  But  if  God 
should  not  delight  to  furnish  some  of  their  posterity  with  gifts  fit 
for  magistracy,  we  should  enforce  them  rather  to  reproach  and 
prejudice  than  exalt  them  to  honor,  if  we  should  call  those  forth 
whom  God  doth  not  to  public  authority.**  The  Venetian  seems 
to  be  the  only  great  aristocracy  in  history,  the  origin  of  which  is 
not  traceable  to  the  accident  of  conquest;  and  the  origin  even  of 
the  Venetian  aristocracy  may  perhaps  be  traced  to  the  accident 
of  prior  settlement  and  the  contagious  example  of  neighboring 
States.  That  which  has  its  origin  in  accident  may  prove  useful 
and  live  long;  it  may  even  survive  itself  under  another  name,  as 
the  Roman  patriciate,  as  the  Norman  nobility,  survived  themselves 
under  the  form  of  a  mixed  aristocracy  of  birth,  political  influence, 
and  wealth.  But  it  can  flourish  only  in  its  native  soil.  Trans- 
plant it,  and  it  dies.  The  native  soil  of  feudal  aristocracy  is  a 
feudal  kingdom,  with  great  estates  held  together  by  the  law  or 
custom  of  primogeniture  in  succession  to  land.  The  New  Eng- 
land colonies  rejected  primogeniture  with  the  other  institutions 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  adopted  the  anti-feudal  ciistom  of  equal 
inheritance,  under  the  legal  and  ancestral  name  of  gavelkind.  It 
was  Saxon  England  emerging  from  the  Norman  rule.  This 
rule  of  succession  to  property,  and  the  equality  with  which  it  is 
distributed,  are  the  basis  of  the  republican  institutions  of  New 
England.  To  transfer  those  institutions  to  countries  where  that 
basis  does  not  exist  would  be  almost  as  absurd  as  to  transfer 
to  modern  society  the  Roman  laws  of  the  Twelve  Tables  or  the 
Capitularies  of  Charlemagne. 

In  New  York,  New  Jersey,  Delaware,  settlements  formed 
by  the  energy  of  Dutch  and  Swedish  Protestantism  have  been 
absorbed  by  the  greater  energy  of  the  Anglo-Saxons.  The  rising 
empire  of  his  faith  beyond  the  Atlantic  did  not  fail  to  attract 
the  soaring  imagination  of  Gustavus:  it  was  in  his  thoughts  when 
he  set  out  for  Liitzen.  But  the  most  remarkable  of  the  Ameri- 
can colonies,  after  the  New  England  group,  is  Pennsylvania.  We 
are  rather  surprised,  on  looking  at  the  portrait  of  the  gentle  and 
eccentric  founder  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  to  see  a  very  comely 


13552  GOLD  WIN   SMITH 

youth  dressed  in  complete  armor.  Penn  was  a  highly  educated 
and  accomplished  gentleman;  heir  to  a  fine  estate,  and  to  all  the 
happiness  and  beauty,  which  he  was  not  without  a  heart  to  feel, 
of  English  manorial  life.  "You  are  an  ingenious  gentleman,** 
said  a  magistrate  before  whom  he  was  brought  for  his  Quaker 
"extravagances;  "why  do  you  make  yourself  unhappy  by  associat- 
ing with  such  a  simple  people  ?  **  In  the  Old  World  he  could 
only  hope  to  found  a  society;  in  the  New  World  he  might  hope 
to  found  a  nation,  of  which  the  law  should  be  love.  The  Con- 
stitution he  framed  for  Philadelphia,  on  pure  republican  princi- 
ples, was  to  be  "  for  the  support  of  power  in  reverence  with  the 
people,  and  to  secure  the  people  from  the  abuse  of  power.  For 
liberty  without  obedience  is  confusion,  and  obedience  without 
liberty  is  slavery."  He  excluded  himself  and  his  heirs  from  the 
founder's  bane  of  authority  over  his  own  creation.  It  is  as  a 
reformer  of  criminal  law,  perhaps,  that  he  has  earned  his  bright- 
est and  most  enduring  fame.  The  codes  and  customs  of  feudal 
Europe  were  lavish  of  servile  or  plebeian  blood.  In  the  repub- 
lic of  New  England  the  life  of  every  man  was  precious;  and 
the  criminal  law  was  far  more  humane  than  that  of  Europe  — 
though  tainted  with  the  dark  Judaism  of  the  Puritans,  with  the 
cruel  delusion  which  they  shared  with  the  rest  of  the  world  on 
the  subject  of  witchcraft,  and  with  their  overstrained  severity  in 
punishing  crimes  of  sense.  Penn  confined  capital  punishment 
to  the  crimes  of  treason  and  murder.  Two  centuries  afterward, 
the  arguments  of  Romilly  and  the  legislation  of  Peel  convinced 
Penn's  native  country  that  these  reveries  of  his,  the  dictates 
of  wisdom  which  sprang  from  his  heart,  were  sober  truth.  We 
are  now  beginning  to  see  the  reality  of  another  of  his  dreams: 
the  dream  of  making  the  prison  not  a  jail  only,  but  a  place 
of  reformation.  Of  the  two  errors  in  government,  that  of  treat- 
ing men  like  angels  and  that  of  treating  them  like  beasts,  he 
did  something  to  show  that  the  one  to  which  he  leaned  was  the 
less  grave;  for  Philadelphia  grew  up  like  an  olive-branch  beneath 
his  fostering  hand. 

In  the  Carolinas,  the  old  settlement  of  Coligny  was  repeopled 
with  English,  Scotch,  Irish,  Germans,  Swiss;  the  motley  elements 
which  will  blend  with  Hollander  and  Swede  to  form  in  America 
the  most  mixed,  and  on  one  theory  the  greatest  of  all  races.  The 
philosophic  hand  of  Locke  attempted  to  create  for  this  colony  a 
highly  elaborate  constitution,  judged  at  the  time  a  masterpiece  of 


GOLDWIN   SMITH  13';';'? 

political  art.  Georgia  bears  the  name  of  the  second  king  of  that 
line  whose  third  king  was  to  lose  all.  Its  philanthropic  founder, 
Oglethorpe,  struggled  to  exclude  slavery;  but  an  evil  policy  and 
the  neighborhood  of  the  West  Indies  baffled  his  endeavors.  Here 
Wesley  preached,  here  Whitfield;  and  Whitfield,  too  anxious  to 
avoid  offense  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  save  souls,  paid  a 
homage  to  the  system  of  slavery,  and  made  a  sophistical  apology 
for  it,  which  weigh  heavily  against  the  merits  of  a  great  apostle 
of  the  poor. 

For  some  time  all  the  colonies,  whatever  their  nominal  gov- 
ernment,—  whether  they  were  under  the  Crown,  under  single 
proprietors,  tmder  companies,  or  under  free  charters, —  enjoyed, 
in  spite  of  chronic  negotiation  and  litigation  with  the  powers  in 
England,  a  large  measure  of  practical  independence.  James  I. 
was  weak;  Charles  I.  and  Laud  had  soon  other  things  to  think 
of;  the  Long  Parliament  were  disposed  to  be  arrogant,  but  the 
Protector  was  magnanimous;  and  finally,  Charles  II.,  careless 
of  everything  on  this  side  the  water,  was  still  more  careless  of 
everything  on  that  side,  and  Clarendon  was  not  too  stiff  for  pre- 
rogative to  give  a  liberal  charter  to  a  colony  of  which  he  was 
himself  a  patentee.  Royal  governors,  indeed,  sometimes  tried  to 
overact  the  King,  and  the  folly  of  Sir  William  Berkeley,  governor 
of  Virginia,  all  but  forestalled  —  and  well  would  it  have  been  if 
it  had  quite  forestalled  —  the  folly  of  Lord  North.  With  this 
exception,  the  colonies  rested  content  and  proud  beneath  the 
shadow  of  England,  and  no  thought  of  a  general  confederation 
or  absolute   independence   ever  entered   into   their  minds. 

As  they  grew  rich,  we  tried  to  interfere  with  their  manu- 
factures and  monopolize  their  trade.  It  was  unjust  and  it  was 
foolish.  The  proof  of  its  folly  is  the  noble  trade  that  has  sprung 
up  between  us  since  our  government  lost  all  power  of  checking 
the  course  of  nature.  But  this  was  the  injustice  and  the  folly 
of  the  time.  No  such  excuse  can  be  made  for  the  attempt  to  tax 
the  colonies  —  in  defiance  of  the  first  principles  of  English  gov- 
ernment—  begun  by  narrow-minded  incompetence  and  continued 
by  insensate  pride.  It  is  miserable  to  see  what  true  affection 
was  there  flung  away.  Persecuted  and  excited,  the  founders  of 
New  England,  says  one  of  their  historians,  did  not  cry  Fare- 
well Rome,  Farewell  Babylon!  They  cried,  Farewell  dear  Eng- 
land! And  this  was  their  spirit  even  far  into  the  fatal  quarrel. 
**  You  have  been  told,"  they  said  to  the  British  Parliament,  after 
the  subversion   of  the   chartered  liberties  of   Massachusetts,   "you 


13554  GOLDWIN   SMITH 

have  been  told  that  we  are  seditious,  impatient  of  government 
and  desirous  of  independence.  Be  assured  that  these  are  not 
facts,  but  calumnies.  Permit  us  to  be  as  free  as  yourselves,  and 
we  shall  ever  esteem  a  union  with  you  to  be  our  greatest  glory 
and  our  greatest  happiness;  we  shall  ever  be  ready  to  contrib- 
ute all  in  our  power  to  the  welfare  of  the  whole  empire;  we  shall 
consider  your  enemies  as  our  enemies,  and  your  interest  as  our 
own.  But  if  you  are  determined  that  your  ministers  shall  wan- 
tonly- sport  with  the  rights  of  mankind;  if  neither  the  voice  of 
justice,  the  dictates  of  law,  the  principles  of  the  Constitution,  nor 
the  suggestions  of  humanity,  can  restrain  your  hands  from  shed- 
ding human  blood  in  such  an  impious  cause, —  we  must  then 
tell  you  that  we  will  never  submit  to  be  *■  hewers  of  wood  and 
drawers  of  water  *  for  any  nation  in  the  world.  *'  What  was 
this  but  the  voice  of  those  who  framed  the  Petition  of  Right 
and  the  Great  Charter  ?  Franklin  alone,  perhaps,  of  the  leading 
Americans,  by  the  dishonorable  publication  of  an  exasperating 
correspondence  which  he  had  improperly  obtained,  shared  with 
Grenville,  Townshend,  and  Lord  North,  the  guilt  of  bringing  this 
great  disaster  on  the  English  race. 

There  could  be  but  one  issue  to  a  war  in  which  England  was 
fighting  against  her  better  self;  or  rather,  in  which  England 
fought  on  one  side  and  a  corrupt  ministry  and  Parliament  on  the 
other.  The  Parliament  of  that  day  was  not  national;  and  though 
the  nation  was  excited  by  the  war  when  once  commenced,  it  by 
no  means  follows  that  a  national  Parliament  would  have  com- 
menced it.  The  great  national  leader  rejoiced  that  the  Americans 
had  resisted.  But  disease,  or  that  worse  enemy  which  hovers 
so  close  to  genius,  deprived  us  of  Chatham  at  the  most  critical 
hour. 

One  thing  there  was  in  that  civil  war  on  which  both  sides 
may  look  back  with  pride.  In  spite  of  deep  provocation  and 
intense  bitterness,  in  spite  of  the  unwarrantable  employment  of 
foreign  troops  and  the  infamous  employment  of  Indians  on  our 
side,  and  the  exasperating  interference  of  the  French  on  the 
side  of  the  Americans,  the  struggle  was  conducted  on  the  whole 
with  great  humanity.  Compared  with  the  French  Revolution, 
it  was  a  contest  between  men  with  noble  natures  and  a  fight 
between  infuriated  beasts.  Something,  too,  it  is  that  from  that 
struggle  should  have  arisen  the  character  of  Washington,  to 
teach  all  ages,  and  especially  those  which  are  inclined  to  worship 
violence,  the    greatness    of    moderation    and    civil    duty.      It    has 


GOLD  WIN  SMITH  1 35  55 

been  truly  said  that  there  is  one  spectacle  more  grateful  to 
Heaven  than  a  good  man  in  adversity, — a  good  man  successful  in 
a  great  cause.  Deeper  happiness  cannot  be  conceived  than  that 
of  the  years  which  Washington  passed  at  Mount  Vernon,  looking 
back  upon  the  life  of  arduous  command  held  without  a  selfish 
thought,  and  laid  down   without   a  stain. 

The  loss  of  the  American  colonies  was  perhaps,  in  itself,  a 
gain  to  both  countries.  It  w^as  a  gain,  as  it  emancipated  com- 
merce, and  gave  free  course  to  those  reciprocal  streams  of 
wealth  which  a  restrictive  policy  had  forbidden  to  flow.  It  was 
a  gain,  as  it  put  an  end  to  an  obsolete  tutelage,  which  tended  to 
prevent  America  betimes  to  walk  alone,  while  it  gave  England 
only  the  puerile  and  somewhat  dangerous  pleasure  of  reigning 
over  those  whom  she  did  not  and  could  not  govern,  but  whom  she 
was  tempted  to  harass  and  insult.  A  source  of  military  strength 
colonies  can  hardly  be.  You  prevent  them  from  forming  proper 
military  establishments  of  their  own,  and  you  drag  them  into 
your  quarrels  at  the  price  of  undertaking  their  defense.  The 
inauguration  of  free  trade  was  in  fact  the  renunciation  of  the 
only  solid  object  for  which  our  ancestors  clung  to  an  invidious 
and  perilous  supremacy,  and  exposed  the  heart  of  England  by 
scattering  her  fleets  and  armies  over  the  globe.  It  was  not  the 
loss  of  the  colonies,  but  the  quarrel,  that  was  one  of  the  great- 
est—  perhaps  the  greatest  disaster  that  ever,  befell  the  English 
race.  Who  would  not  give  up  Blenheim  and  Waterloo  if  only 
the  two  Englands  could  have  parted  from  each  other  in  kindness 
and  in  peace;  if  our  statesmen  could  have  had  the  wisdom  to 
say  to  the  Americans  generously  and  at  the  right  season,  "You 
are  Englishmen  like  ourselves:  be,  for  your  own  happiness  and 
our  honor,  hke  ourselves,  a  nation  '^  ?  But  English  statesmen,  with 
all  their  greatness,  have  seldom  known  how  to  anticipate  neces- 
sity; too  often  the  sentence  of  history  on  their  policy  has  been 
that  it  was  wise,  just,  and  generous,  but  "too  late."  Too  often 
have  they  waited  for  the  teaching  of  disaster.  Time  will  heal 
this,  like  other  wounds.  In  signing  away  his  own  empire  over 
America,  George  III.  did  not  sign  away  the  empire  of  English 
liberty,  of  English  law,  of  English  literature,  of  English  religion, 
of  EngHsh  blood,  or  of  the  English  tongue.  But  though  the 
wound  will  heal,— and  that  it  may  heal,  ought  to  be  the  earnest 
desire  of  the  w^hole  English  name, —  history  can  never  cancel  the 
fatal  page  which  robs  England  of  half  the  glory  and  half  the 
happiness  of  being  the  mother  of  a  great  nation. 


I3SS6 


SYDNEY   SMITH 

(1771-1845) 

'ydney  Smith's  reputation  as  an  English  wit  is  solid, — if  that 
word  can  be  applied  to  so  volatile  a  quality.  But  wit  that 
endures  generally  implies  other  characteristics  behind  it; 
and  Sydney  Smith  is  no  exception.  He  was  a  man  of  great  intellect; 
an  advanced  thinker  on  politics,  philosophy,  and  religion,  and  one  of 
the  most  potent  and  salutary  influences  of  his  day  in  England.  His 
brilliant  social  traits  should  not  obscure  this  fact.  Naturally,  how- 
ever, it  is  the  sparkling  bon-mot  that   is  easiest  remembered.     He  had 

the  art,  as  had  few  men  of  his  time,  of 
saying  a  deep  or  pregnant  thing  in  a  light 
way. 

He  was  the  son  of  an  English  country 
gentleman  of  marked  eccentricity  of  charac- 
ter, and  was  born  at  Woodford,  Essex,  June 
3d,  177 1.  He  went  to  Winchester  school; 
then  to  Oxford,  where  he  was  a  Fellow  in 
1792.  A  brief  residence  in  Normandy  gave 
him  a  command  of  the  French  language. 
His  subsequent  career  was  that  of  a  tal- 
ented and  ambitious  cleric  in  the  Church 
of  England.  It  is  significant  that  the  bar, 
not  the  pulpit,  was  his  choice  for  a  pro- 
fession: it  is  easy  to  see  that  he  would 
have  been  successful  in  the  former  calling.  In  1794  he  became 
curate  of  a  remote  parish  on  Salisbury  Plains;  and  in  1796  went 
to  Edinburgh,  where  he  officiated  for  five  years  at  an  Episcopal 
chapel.  It  was  during  this  Edinburgh  residence  that  he  formed 
the  intimacy  with  Brougham,  Jeffrey,  and  other  clever  young  liter- 
ary men,  which  resulted  in  1802  in  the  foundation  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review,  with  Sydney  Smith  as  chief  editor.  He  contributed 
seven  articles  to  the  first  number,  and  kept  up  his  connection 
with  the  magazine  as  a  contributor  for  a  quarter  of  a  century.  The 
position  taken  by  this  famous  review  was  largely  due  to  the  impress 
given  to  it  by  Sydney  Smith.  From  Edinburgh  he  went  to  Lon- 
don, and  was  a  popular  preacher  there  until  1806,  when  he  was  given 
the    Yorkshire   living   of   Foston-le-Clay ;   in   1809   he   received  that  of 


Sydney  Smith 


SYDNEY   SMITH  13557 

Heslington  near  York,  where  he  remained  until  1828.  It  was  char- 
acteristic of  the  man  that  he  proved  a  faithful,  hard-working  coun- 
try parson.  In  this  year  he  received  the  appointment  of  canon  of 
Bristol,  from  which  he  was  transferred  to  London,  as  resident  canon 
of  St.  Paul's,  living  in  the  capital  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  and  dying 
there  on  February  226.,  1845.  It  has  always  been  believed  that  had 
he  not  been  throughout  a  consistent  and  sturdy  Whig,  and  hence 
on  the  unpopular  side,  he  would  have  died  a  bishop.  For  a  dozen 
years  or  more,  in  London,  he  was  not  only  an.  intellectual  force 
but  a  social  light,  famous  for  his  good-fellowship,  a  persona  grata  in 
drawing-rooms.  His  fund  of  animal  spirits  was  unfailing.  The  con- 
junction of  such  intellectual  powers  with  social  gifts  and  graces  is 
rare  indeed.  Yet  physically,  he  was  bulky  and  ungraceful,  his  face 
heavy  and  plain;  and  he  was  by  no  means  a  ladies'  man  in  the  usual 
sense  of  that  term. 

The  first  characteristic  publication  of  Sydney  Smith  was  the  ^  Let- 
ters on  the  Subject  of  the  Catholics:  To  my  Brother  Abraham,  who 
Lives  in  the  Country,  by  Peter  Plymley  *  (1807-8);  it  was  issued 
anonymously,  and  had  a  decided  influence  in  securing  Roman  Catho- 
lic emancipation.  The  lectures  on  moral  philosophy  —  delivered  at 
London,  and  attracting  large  and  fashionable  audiences  in  spite  of  the 
abstruse  nature  of  the  subject  —  were  not  published  till  1849,  Jeffrey 
being  the  editor.  Sydney  Smith's  other  published  writings  embraced 
sermons,  occasional  discourses,  and  essays  on  political  and  social 
themes.  In  1856  appeared  <  The  Wit  and  Wisdom  of  Sydney  Smith, > 
with  a  biography  and  notes  by  E.  A.  Duyckinck.  The  memoir  by 
his  daughter,  Lady  Holland,  gives  an  idea  of  his  trenchant  table-talk; 
and  valuable  material  is  contained  in  Stuart  J.  Reid's  <  Life  and 
Times  of  Sydney  Smith  >  (1884).  Any  one  who  takes  the  trouble  to 
read  Sydney  Smith's  serious  writings  will  see  plainly  that  his  wit 
and  satire  were  but  light-arm  weapons  used  for  serious  purposes  and 
in  noble  and  enlightened  causes.  Macaulay  remarked  that  he  was 
the  greatest  master  of  ridicule  in  England  since  Swift.  Doubtless 
this  is  true.  But  equally  true  is  Sir  Henry  Holland's  claim  that  <'  if 
he  had  not  been  the  greatest  and  most  brilliant  of  wits,  he  would  have 
been  the  most  remarkable  man  of  his  time  for  a  sound  and  vigorous 
understanding  and  great  reasoning  powers;  and  if  he  had  not  been 
distinguished  for  these,  he  would  have  been  the  most  eminent  and 
the  purest  writer  of  English.*' 


13558  SYDNEY   SMITH 

THE    EDUCATION  OF   WOMEN 

A  GREAT  deal  has  been  said  of  the  original  diflference  of  ca- 
pacity between  men  and  women;  as  if  women  were  more 
quick,  and  men  more  judicious, — as  if  women  were  more 
remarkable  for  delicacy  of  association,  and  men  for  stronger  pow- 
ers of  attention.  All  this,  we  confess,  appears  to  us  very  fanci- 
ful. That  there  is  a  difference  in  the  understandings  of  the  men 
and  the  women  we  every  day  meet  with,  everybody,  we  sup- 
pose, must  perceive;  but  there  is  none  surely  which  may  not  be 
accounted  for  by  the  difference  of  circumstances  in  which  they 
have  been  placed,  without  referring  to  any  conjectural  difference 
of  original  conformation  of  mind.  As  long  as  boys  and  girls 
run  about  in  the  dirt,  and  trundle  hoops  together,  they  are  both 
precisely  alike.  If  you  catch  up  one-half  of  these  creatures,  and 
train  them  to  a  particular  set  of  actions  and  opinions,  and  the 
other  half  to  a  perfectly  opposite  set,  of  course  their  understand- 
ings will  differ,  as  one  or  the  other  sort  of  occupations  has  called 
this  or  that  talent  into  action.  There  is  surely  no  occasion  to  go 
into  any  deeper  or  more  abstruse  reasoning,  in  order  to  explain 
so  very  simple  a  phenomenon. 

There  is  in  either  sex  a  strong  and  permanent  disposition  to 
appear  agreeable  to  the  other;  and  this  is  the  fair  answer  to 
those  who  are  fond  of  supposing  that  a  higher  degree  of  knowl- 
edge would  make  women  rather  the  rivals  than  the  companions 
of  men.  Presupposing  such  a  desire  to  please,  it  seems  much 
more  probable  that  a  common  pursuit  should  be  a  fresh  source 
of  interest  than  a  cause  of  contention.  Indeed,  to  suppose  that 
any  mode  of  education  can  create  a  general  jealousy  and  rivalry 
between  the  sexes,  is  so  very  ridiculous  that  it  requires  only  to 
be  stated  in  order  to  be  refuted.  The  same  desire  of  pleasing 
secures  all  that  delicacy  and  reserve  which  are  of  such  inestima- 
ble value  to  women.  '  We  are  quite  astonished,  in  hearing  men 
converse  on  such  subjects,  to  find  them  attributing  such  beau- 
tiful effects  to  ignorance.  It  would  appear,  from  the  tenor  of 
such  objections,  that  ignorance  had  been  the  great  civilizer  of  the 
world.  Women  are  delicate  and  refined,  only  because  they  are 
ignorant;  they  manage  their  household,  only  because  they  are 
ignorant;  they  attend  to  their  children,  only  because  they  know 
no  better.  Now,  we  must  really  confess  we  have  all  our  lives 
been  so   ignorant  as   not   to   know  the  value   of   ignorance.     We 


SYDNEY   SMITH  r^-cn 

have  -always  attributed  the  modesty  and  the  refined  manners  of 
women  to  their  being  well  taught  in  moral  and  religious  duty;  to 
the  hazardous  situation  in  which  they  are  placed ;  to  that  perpetual 
vigilance  which  it  is  their  duty  to  exercise  over  thought,  word, 
and  action;  and  to  that  cultivation  of  the  mild  virtues,  which 
those  who  cultivate  the  stern  and  magnanimous  virtues  expect  at 
their  hands.  After  all,  let  it  be  remembered  we  are  not  saying 
there  are  no  objections  to  the  diffusion  of  knowledge  among  the 
female  sex, —  we  would  not  hazard  such  a  proposition  respecting 
anything;  but  we  are  saying  that  upon  the  whole,  it  is  the  best 
method  of  employing  time,  and  that  there  are  fewer  objections  to 
it  than  to  any  other  method.  There  are  perhaps  fifty  thousand 
females  in  Great  Britain  who  are  exempted  by  circumstances 
from  all  necessary  labor:  but  every  human  being  must  do  some 
thing  with  their  existence;  and  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  is,  upor. 
the  whole,  the  most  innocent,  the  most  dignified,  and  the  most 
useful  method  of  filling  up  that  idleness  of  which  there  is  al 
ways  so  large  a  portion  in  nations  far  advanced  in  civilization, 
Let  any  man  reflect,  too,  upon  the  solitary  situation  in  whicl\ 
women  are  placed;  the  ill  treatment  to  which  they  are  sometimes 
exposed,  and  which  they  must  endure  in  silence  and  without  the 
power  of  complaining:  and  he  must  feel  convinced  that  the  hap- 
piness of  a  woman  will  be  materially  increased  in  proportion  as 
education  has  given  to  her  the  habit  and  the  means  of  drawing 
her  resources  from  herself. 

There  are  a  few  common  phrases  in  circulation  respecting  the 
duties  of  women,  to  which  we  wish  to  pay  some  degree  of  atten- 
tion, because  they  are  rather  inimical  to  those  opinions  which  we 
have  advanced  on  this  subject.  Indeed,  independently  of  this, 
there  is  nothing  which  requires  more  vigilance  than  the  current 
phrases  of  the  day;  of  which  there  are  always  some  resorted  to 
in  every  dispute,  and  from  the  sovereign  authority  of  which  it  is 
often  vain  to  make  any  appeal.  **  The  true  theatre  for  a  woman 
is  the  sick-chamber;"  **  Nothing  so  honorable  to  a  woman  as 
not  to  be  spoken  of  at  all.  **  These  two  phrases,  the  delight  of 
Noodledoin,  are  grown  into  commonplaces  upon  the  subject;  and 
are  not  imfrequently  employed  to  extinguish  that  love  of  knowl- 
edge in  women  which,  in  our  humble  opinion,  it  is  of  so  much 
importance  to  cherish.  Nothing,  certainly,  is  so  ornamental  and 
delightful  in  women  as  the  benevolent  afTections;  but  time  ca!i- 
not  be  filled  up,  and  life   employed,  with  high  and  impassioned 


13560  SYDNEY   SMITH 

virtues.  Some  of  these  feelings  are  of  rare  occurrence,  -all  of 
short  duration,  or  nature  would  sink  under  them.  A  scene  of 
distress  and  anguish  is  an  occasion  where  the  finest  qualities  of 
the  female  mind  may  be  displayed;  but  it  is  a  monstrous  ex- 
aggeration to  tell  women  that  they  are  born  only  for  scenes  of 
distress  and  anguish.  Nurse  father,  mother,  sister,  and  brother, 
:'f  they  want  it:  it  would  be  a  violation  of  the  plainest  duties  to 
neglect  them.  But  when  we  are  talking  of  the  common  occupa- 
tions of  life,  do  not  let  us  mistake  the  accidents  for  the  occu- 
pations; when  we  are  arguing  how  the  twenty-three  hours  of 
the  day  are  to  be  filled  up,  it  is  idle  to  tell  us  of  those  feel- 
ings and  agitations  above  the  level  of  common  existence,  which 
may  employ  the  remaining  hour.  Compassion,  and  every  other 
virtue,  are  the  great  objects  we  all  ought  to  have  in  view;  but 
no  man  (and  no  woman)  can  fill  up  the  twenty-four  hours  by 
acts  of  virtue.  But  one  is  a  lawyer,  and  the  other  a  plowman, 
and  the  third  a  merchant;  and  then,  acts  of  goodness,  and  inter- 
vals of  compassion  and  fine  feeling,  are  scattered  up  and  down 
the  common  occupations  of  life.  We  know  women  are  to  be 
compassionate ;  but  they  cannot  be  compassionate  from  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning  till  twelve  at  night,  and  what  are  they 
to  do  in  the  interval  ?  This  is  the  only  question  we  have  been 
putting  all  along,  and  is  all  that  can  be  meant  by  literary  educa- 
tion. 

One  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  life  is  conversation;  and  the 
pleasures  of  conversation  are  of  course  enhanced  by  every  increase 
of  knowledge:  not  that  we  should  meet  together  to  talk  of  alka- 
lies and  angles,  or  to  add  to  our  stock  of  history  and  philology  — 
though  a  little  of  these  things  is  no  bad  ingredient  in  conver- 
sation; but  let  the  subject  be  what  it  may,  there  is  always  a 
prodigious  difference  between  the  conversation  of  those  who 
have  been  well  educated  and  of  those  who  have  not  enjoyed  this 
advantage.  Education  gives  fecundity  of  thought,  copiousness  of 
illustration,  quickness,  vigor,  fancy,  words,  images,  and  illustra- 
tions; it  decorates  every  common  thing,  and  gives  the  power  of 
trifling  without  being  undignified  and  absurd.  The  subjects  them- 
selves may  not  be  wanted,  upon  which  the  talents  of  an  edu- 
cated man  have  been  exercised ;  but  there  is  always  a  demand  for 
those  talents  which  his  education  has  rendered  strong  and  quick. 
Now,  really,  nothing  can  be  further  from  our  intention  than  to 
say  anything  rude  and   unpleasant;   but  we  must   be   excused  for 


SYDNEY  SMITH 


13561 


observing  that  it  is  not  now  a  very  common  thing  to  be  inter- 
ested by  the  variety  and  extent  of  female  knowledge,  but  it  is  a 
very  common  thing  to  lament  that  the  finest  faculties  in  the 
world  have  been  confined  to  trifles  utterly  unworthy  of  their 
richness  and  their  strength. 

The  pursuit  of  knowledge  is  the  most  innocent  and  inter- 
esting occupation  which  can  be  given  to  the  female  sex;  nor 
can  there  be  a  better  method  of  checking  a  spirit  of  dissipation 
than  by  diffusing  a  taste  for  literature.  The  true  way  to  attack 
vice  is  by  setting  up  something  else  against  it.  Give  to  women, 
in  early  youth,  something  to  acquire,  of  sufficient  interest  and 
importance  to  command  the  application  of  their  mature  faculties, 
and  to  excite  their  perseverance  in  future  life;  teach  them  that 
happiness  is  to  be  derived  from  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  as 
well  as  the  gratification  of  vanity;  and  you  will  raise  up  a  much 
more  formidable  barrier  against  dissipation  than  a  host  of  invect- 
ives and  exhortations  can  supply. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  an  unfortunate  man  gets  drunk 
with  very  bad  wine,  not  to  gratify  his  palate  but  to  forget  his 
cares:  he  does  not  set  any  value  on  what  he  receives,  but  on 
account  of  what  it  excludes;  it  keeps  out  something  worse  than 
itself.  Now,  though  it  were  denied  that  the  acquisition  of  serious 
knowledge  is  of  itself  important  to  a  woman,  still  it  prevents  a 
taste  for  silly  and  pernicious  works  of  imagination ;  it  keeps  away 
the  horrid  trash  of  novels;  and  in  lieu  of  that  eagerness  for 
emotion  and  adventure  which  books  of  that  sort  inspire,  promotes 
a  calm  and  steady  temperament  of  mind. 

A  man  who  deserves  such  a  piece  of  good  fortune,  may  gen- 
erally find  an  excellent  companion  for  all  vicissitudes  of  his  life; 
but  it  is  not  so  easy  to  find  a  companion  for  his  understanding, 
who  has  similar  pursuits  with  himself,  or  who  can  comprehend 
the  pleasure  he  derives  from  them.  We  really  can  see  no  reason 
why  it  should  not  be  otherwise;  nor  comprehend  how  the  pleas- 
ures of  domestic  life  can  be  promoted  by  diminishing  the  num- 
ber of  subjects  in  which  persons  who  are  to  spend  their  lives 
together  take  a  common  interest. 

One  of  the  most  agreeable  consequences  of  knowledge  is  the 
respect  and  importance  which  it  communicates  to  old  age.  Men 
rise  in  character  often  as  they  increase  in  years:  they  are  vener- 
able from  what  they  have  acquired,  and  pleasing  from  what  they 
can  impart;  if  they  outlive  their  faculties,  the  mere   frame  itself 


13^62  SYDNEY  SMITH  i 

is  respected  for  what  it  once  contained.  But  women  (such  is 
their  unfortunate  style  of  education)  hazard  everything  upon  one 
cast  of  the  die:  when  youth  is  gone,  all  is  gone.  No  human 
creature  gives  his  admiration  for  nothing:  either  the  eye  must 
be  charmed  or  the  understanding  gratified.  A  woman  must  talk 
wisely  or  look  well.  Every  human  being  must  put  up  with  the 
coldest  civility,  who  has  neither  the  charms  of  youth  nor  the 
wisdom  of  age.  Neither  is  there  the  slightest  commiseration  for 
decayed  accomplishments;  no  man  mourns  over  the  fragments  of 
a  dancer,  or  drops  a  tear  on  the  relics  of  musical  skill, —  they 
are  flowers  destined  to  perish:  but  the  decay  of  great  talents  is 
always  the  subject  of  solemn  pity;  and  even  when  their  last 
memorial  is  over,  their  ruins  and  vestiges  are  regarded  with 
piotis   affection. 

There  is  no  connection  between  the  ignorance  in  which  women 
are  kept,  and  the  preservation  of  moral  and  religious  principle; 
and  yet  certainly  there  is,  in  the  minds  of  some  timid  and  re- 
spectable persons,  a  vague,  indefinite  dread  of  knowledge,  as  if 
it  were  capable  of  producing  these  effects.  It  might  almost  be 
supposed,  from  the  dread  which  the  propagation  of  knowledge 
has  excited,  that  there  was  some  great  secret  which  was  to  be 
kept  in  impenetrable  obscurity;  that  all  moral  rules  were  a  spe- 
cies of  delusion  and  imposture,  the  detection  of  which,  by  the 
improvement  of  the  understanding,  would  be  attended  with  the 
most  fatal  consequences  to  all,  and  particularly  to  women.  If 
we  could  possibly  understand  what  these  great  secrets  were,  we 
might  perhaps  be  disposed  to  concur  in  their  preservation;  but 
believing  that  all  the  salutary  rules  which  are  imposed  on  women 
are  the  result  of  true  wisdom,  and  productive  of  the  greatest 
happiness,  we  cannot  understand  how  they  are  to  become  less 
sensible  of  this  truth  in  proportion  as  their  power  of  discovering 
truth  in  general  is  increased,  and  the  habit  of  viewing  questions 
with  accuracy  and  comprehension  established  by  education.  There 
are  men,  indeed,  who  are  always  exclaiming  against  every  species 
of  power,  because  it  is  connected  with  danger:  their  dread  of 
abuses  is  so  much  stronger  than  their  admiration  of  uses,  that 
they  would  cheerfully  give  up  the  use  of  fire,  gunpowder,  and 
printing,  to  be  freed  from  robbers,  incendiaries,  and  libels.  It 
is  true  that  every  increase  of  knowledge  may  possibly  render 
depravity  more  depraved,  as  well  as  it  may  increase  the  strength 
of  virtue.      It   is  in  itself   only  power;    and   its  value  depends  on 


SYDNEY  SMITH 


13563 


its  application.  But  trust  to  the  natural  love  of  good  where  there 
is  no  temptation  to  be  bad, —  it  operates  nowhere  more  forcibly 
than  in  education.  No  man,  whether  he  be  tutor,  guardian,  or 
friend,  ever  contents  himself  with  infusing  the  mere  ability  to 
acquire;  but  giving  the  power,  he  gives  it  with  a  taste  for  the 
wise  and  rational  exercise  of  that  power:  so  that  an  educated 
person  is  not  only  one  with  stronger  and  better  faculties  than 
others,  but  with  a  more  useful  propensity,  a  disposition  better 
cultivated,  and  associations  of  a  higher  and  more  important  class. 
In  short,  and  to  recapitulate  the  main  points  upon  which 
we  have  insisted:  Why  the  disproportion  in  knowledge  between 
the  two  sexes  should  be  so  great,  when  the  inequality  in  natural 
talents  is  so  small;  or  why  the  understanding  of  women  should 
be  lavished  upon  trifles,  when  nature  has  made  it  capable  of  bet- 
ter and  higher  things, —  we  profess  ourselves  not  able  to  under- 
stand. The  affectation  charged  upon  female  knowledge  is  best 
cured  by  making  that  knowledge  more  general;  and  the  economy 
devolved  upon  women  is  best  secured  by  the  ruin,  disgrace,  and 
inconvenience  which  proceed  from  neglecting  it.  For  the  care 
of  children,  nature  has  made  a  direct  and  powerful  provision; 
and  the  gentleness  and  elegance  of  women  is  the  natural  conse- 
quence of  that  desire  to  please  which  is  productive  of  the  great- 
est part  of  civilization  and  refinement,  and  which  rests  upon  a 
foundation  too  deep  to  be  shaken  by  any  such  modifications  in 
education  as  we  have  proposed.  If  you  educate  women  to  attend 
to  dignified  and  important  subjects,  you  are  multiplying  be3'ond 
measure  the  chances  of  human  improvement,  by  preparing  and 
medicating  those  early  impressions  which  always  come  from  the 
mother,  and  which  in  a  great  majority  of  instances  are  quite 
decisive  of  character  and  genius.  Nor  is  it  only  in  the  business 
of  education  that  women  would  influence  the  destiny  of  man. 
If  women  knew  more,  men  must  learn  more;  for  ignorance 
would  then  be  shameful,  and  it  would  become  the  fashion  to 
be  instructed.  The  instruction  of  women  improves  the  stock  of 
national  talents,  and  employs  more  minds  for  the  instruction  and 
amusement  of  the  world;  it  increases  the  pleasures  of  society, 
by  multiplying  the  topics  upon  whicli  the  two  sexes  take  a  com- 
mon interest;  and  makes  marriage  an  intercourse  of  understand- 
ing as  well  as  of  affection,  by  giving  dignity  and  importance 
to  the  female  character.  The  education  of  women  favors  public 
morals:    it  provides   for  every  season    of  life,  as  well   as  for  the 


J      g  SYDNEY   SMITH 

brightest  and  the  best;  and  leaves  a  woman,  when  she  is  stricken 
by  the  hand  of  time,  not  as  she  now  is,  destitute  of  everything 
and  neglected  by  all,  but  with  the  full  power  and  the  splendid 
attractions  of  knowledge,— diffusing  the  elegant  pleasures  of  polite 
literature,  and  receiving  the  just  homage  of  learned  and  accom- 
plished men. 


JOHN    BULL'S   CHARITY   SUBSCRIPTIONS 

THE  English  are  a  calm,  reflecting  people;  they  will  give  time 
and  money  when  they  are  convinced;  but  they  love  dates, 
names,  and  certificates.  In  the  midst  of  the  most  heart- 
rending narratives,  Bull  requires  the  day  of  the  month,  the  year 
of  our  Lord,  the  name  of  the  parish,  and  the  countersign  of 
three  or  four  respectable  householders.  After  these  affecting 
circumstances,  he  can  no  longer  hold  out;  but  gives  way  to  the 
kindness  of  his  nature  —  puff s,  blubbers,   and  subscribes. 


WISDOM   OF   OUR  ANCESTORS 

((^^UR  Wise  Ancestors  >*  —  «  The  Wisdom  of  our  Ancestors  »  — 
(^  «  The  Wisdom  of  Ages  »  —  «  Venerable  Antiquity  »  —  «  Wis- 
dom of  Old  Times. »  —  This  mischievous  and  absurd  fallacy 
springs  from  the  grossest  perversion  of  the  meaning  of  words. 
Experience  is  certainly  the  mother  of  wisdom,  and  the  old  have 
of  course  a  greater  experience  than  the  young;  but  the  question 
is.  Who  are  the  old  ?  and  who  are  the  young  ?  Of  individuals 
living  at  the  same  period,  the  oldest  has  of  course  the  greatest 
experience;  but  among  generations  of  men,  the  reverse  of  this  is 
true.  Those  who  come  first  (our  ancestors)  are  the  young  people, 
and  have  the  least  experience.  We  have  added  to  their  experience 
the  experience  of  many  centuries;  and  therefore,  as  far  as  expe- 
rience goes,  are  wiser  and  more  capable  of  forming  an  opinion 
than  they  were.  The  real  feeling  should  be,  not,  Can  we  be  so 
presumptuous  as  to  put  our  opinions  in  opposition  to  those  of  our 
ancestors?  but.  Can  such  young,  ignorant,  inexperienced  persons 
as  our  ancestors  necessarily  were,  be  expected  to  have  understood 
a  subject  as  well  as  those  who  have  seen  so  much  more,  lived  so 
much  longer,  and  enjoyed  the  experience  of  so  many  centuries? 


SYDNEY   SMITH  13565 

All  this  cant,  then,  about  our  ancestors,  is  merely  an  abuse  of 
words,  by  transferring  phrases  true  of  contemporary  men  to  suc- 
ceeding ages.  Whereas  (as  we  have  before  observed)  of  living 
men  the  oldest  has,  ccEteris  paribus,  the  most  experience ;  of  gen- 
erations the  oldest  has,  ccBteris  paribus,  the  least  experience.  Our 
ancestors,  up  to  the  Conquest,  were  children  in  arms;  chubby 
boys  in  the  time  of  Edward  the  First ;  striplings  -under  Elizabeth ; 
men  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne:  and  we  only  are  the  white- 
bearded,  silver-headed  ancients,  who  have  treasured  up,  and  are 
prepared  to  profit  by,  all  the  experience  which  human  life  can 
supply.  We  are  not  disputing  with  our  ancestors  the  palm  of 
talent,  in  which  they  may  or  may  not  be  our  superiors;  but  the 
palm  of  experience,  in  which  it  is  iitterly  impossible  they  can  be 
our  superiors.  And  yet,  whenever  the  Chancellor  comes  forward 
to  protect  some  abuse,  or  to  oppose  some  plan  which  has  the 
increase  of  human  happiness  for  its  object,  his  first  appeal  is 
always  to  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors;  and  he  himself,  and  many 
noble  lords  who  vote  with  him,  are  to  this  hour  persuaded  that 
all  alterations  and  amendments  on  their  devices  are  an  unblushing 
controversy  between  youthful  temerity  and  mature  experience! 
and  so  in  truth  they  are;  only  that  much-loved  magistrate  mis- 
takes the  young  for  the  old  and  the  old  for  the  young,  and  is 
guilty  of  that  very  sin  against  experience  which  he  attributes  to 
the  lovers  of  innovation. 

We  cannot,  of  course,  be  supposed  to  maintain  that  our  ances- 
tors wanted  wisdom,  or  that  they  were  necessarily  mistaken  in 
their  institutions,  because  their  means  of  information  were  more 
limited  than  ours.  But  we  do  confidently  maintain,  that  when 
we  find  it  expedient  to  change  anything  which  our  ancestors  have 
enacted,  we  are  the  experienced  persons,  and  not  they.  The 
quantity  of  talent  is  always  varying  in  any  great  nation.  To  say 
that  we  are  more  or  less  able  than  our  ancestors,  is  an  assertion 
that  requires  to  be  explained.  All  the  able  men  of  all  ages,  who 
have  ever  lived  in  England,  probably  possessed,  if  taken  alto- 
gether, more  intellect  than  all  the  able  men  now  in  England 
can  boast  of.  But  if  authority  must  be  resorted  to  rather  than 
reason,  the  question  is,  What  was  the  wisdom  of  that  single  age 
which  enacted  the  law,  compared  with  the  wisdom  of  the  age 
which  proposes  to  alter  it  ?  What  are  the  eminent  men  of  one 
and  the  other  period  ?  If  you  say  that  our  ancestors  were  wiser 
than  us,  mention  your  date  and  year.  If  the  splendor  of  names 
is  equal,  are  the   circumstances  the  same  ?     If  the  circumstances 


;566 


SYDNEY  SMITH 


are  the  same,  we  Tiave  a  superiority  of  experience,  of  which  the 
difference  between  the  two  periods  is  the  measure. 

It  is  necessary  to  insist  upon  this;  for  upon  sacks  of  wool, 
and  on  benches  forensic,  sit  grave  men,  and  agricolous  persons 
in  the  Commons,  crying  out,  "Ancestors,  Ancestors!  Jiodie  non! 
Saxons,  Danes,  save  us!  Fiddlefrig,  help  us!  Howel,  Ethel- 
wolf,  protect  us!.*^  Any  cover  for  nonsense  —  any  veil  for  trash 
—  any  pretext  for  repelling  the  innovations  of  conscience  and  of 
duty! 


LATIN   VERSES 

THAT  vast  advantages,  then,  may  be  derived  from  classical 
learning,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  The  advantages  which 
are  derived  from  classical  learning  by  the  English  manner 
of  teaching,  involve  another  and  a  very  different  question;  and 
we  will  venture  to  say  that  there  never  was  a  more  complete 
instance  in  any  country  of  such  extravagant  and  overacted  attach- 
ment to  any  branch  of  knowledge,  as  that  which  obtains  in  this 
country  with  regard  to  classical  knowledge.  A  young  English- 
man goes  to  school  at  six  or  seven  years  old;  and  he  remains  in 
a  course  of  education  till  twenty-three  or  twenty-four  years  of 
age.  In  all  that  time,  his  sole  and  exclusive  occupation  is  learn- 
ing Latin  and  Greek:  he  has  scarcely  a  notion  that  there  is  any 
other  kind  of  excellence;  and  the  great  system  of  facts  with 
which  he  is  the  most  perfectly  acquainted  are  the  intrigues  of 
the  heathen  gods :  with  whom  Pan  slept  ?  —  with  whom  Jupiter  ? 
—  whom  Apollo  ravished  ?  These  facts  the  English  youth  get 
by  heart  the  moment  they  quit  the  nursery;  and  are  most  sedu- 
lously and  industriously  instructed  in  them  till  the  best  and  most 
active  part  of  life  is  passed  away.  Now,  this  long  career  of 
classical  learning  we  may,  if  we  please,  denominate  a  foundation; 
but  it  is  a  foundation  so  far  above-ground,  that  there  is  abso- 
lutely no  room  to  put  anything  upon  it.  If  you  occupy  a  man 
with  one  thing  till  he  is  twenty-four  years  of  age,  you  have 
exhausted  all  his  leisure  time:  he  is  called  into  the  world,  and 
compelled  to  act;  or  is  surrounded  with  pleasures,  and  thinks  and 
reads  no  more.  If  you  have  neglected  to  put  other  things  in 
him,  they  will  never  get  in  afterward ;  if  you  have  fed  him 
only  with  words,  he  will  remain  a  narrow  and  limited  being  to 
the  end  of  his  existence. 


SYDNEY   SMITH  I^(;67 

The  bias  given  to  men's  minds  is  so  strong,  that  it  is  no 
uncommon  thing  to  meet  with  Englishmen,  whom,  but  for  their 
gray  hairs  and  wrinkles,  we  might  easily  mistake  for  schoolboys. 
Their  talk  is  of  Latin  verses;  and  it  is  quite  clear,  if  men's  ages 
are  to  be  dated  from  the  state  of  their  mental  progress,  that 
such  men  are  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  not  a  day  older.  Their 
minds  have  been  so  completely  possessed  by  exaggerated  notions 
of  classical  learning,  that  they  have  not  been  able,  in  the  great 
school  of  the  world,  to  form  any  other  notion  of  real  greatness. 
Attend,  too,  to  the  public  feelings;  look  to  all  the  terms  of 
applause.  A  learned  man!  a  scholar!  a  man  of  erudition!  Upon 
whom  are  these  epithets  of  approbation  bestowed  ?  Are  they 
given  to  men  acquainted  with  the  science  of  government  ?  thor- 
oughly masters  of  the  geographical  and  commercial  relations  of 
Europe  ?  to  men  who  know  the  properties  of  bodies,  and  their 
action  upon  each  other?  No;  this  is  not  learning:  it  is  chem- 
istry or  political  economy  —  not  learning.  The  distinguishing 
abstract  term,  the  epithet  of  **  scholar, "  is  reserved  for  him  who 
writes  on  the  ^olic  reduplication,  and  is  familiar  with  the  Syl- 
burgian  method  of  arranging  defectives  in  w  and  lu.  The  pict- 
ure from  which  a  young  Englishman,  addicted  to  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge,  draws  his  bean  ideal  of  human  nature  —  his  top  and 
consummation  of  man's  powers  —  is  a  knowledge  of  the  Greek 
language.  His  object  is  not  to  reason,  to  imagine,  or  to  invent; 
but  to  conjugate,  decline,  and  derive.  The  situations  of  imagi- 
nary glory  which  he  draws  for  himself  are  the  detection  of  an 
anapeest  in  the  wrong  place,  or  the  restoration  of  a  dative  case 
which  Cranzius  had  passed  over,  and  the  never-dying  Ernesti 
failed  to  observe.  If  a  young  classic  of  this  kind  were  to  meet 
the  greatest  chemist,  or  the  greatest  mechanician,  or  the  most 
profound  political  economist,  of  his  time,  in  company  with  the 
greatest  Greek  scholar,  would  the  slightest  comparison  between 
them  ever  come  across  his  mind  ?  would  he  ever  dream  that 
such  men  as  Adam  Smith  or  Lavoisier  were  equal  in  dignity  of 
understanding  to,  or  of  the  same  utility  as,  Bentley  and  Heyne  ? 
We  are  incHned  to  think  lliat  the  feeling  excited  would  be  a 
good  deal  like  that  which  was  expressed  by  Dr.  George  about  the 
praises  of  the  great  King  of  Prussia,  who  entertained  consider- 
able doubt  whether  the  King,  with  all  his  victories,  knew  how  to 
conjugate  a  Greek  verb  in  !n. 

Another  misfortune  of  classical  learning  as  taught  in  Eng- 
land  is,  that    scholars    have    come,  in    process   of   time    and    from 


13568  SYDNEY   SMITH 

the  effects  of  association,  to  love  the  instniment  better  than  the 
end;  not  the  luxury  which  the  difficulty  incloses,  but  the  diffi- 
culty; not  the  filbert,  but  the  shell;  not  what  may  be  read  in 
Greek,  but  Greek  itself.  It  is  not  so  much  the  man  who  has 
mastered  the  wisdom  of  the  ancients,  that  is  valued,  as  he  who 
displays  his  knowledge  of  the  vehicle  in  which  that  wisdom  is 
conveyed.  The  glory  is  to  show  I  am  a  scholar.  The  good 
sense  and  ingenuity  I  may  gain  by  my  acquaintance  with  ancient 
authors  is  matter  of  opinion;  but  if  I  bestow  an  immensity  of 
pains  upon  a  point  of  accent  or  quantity,  this  is  something  posi- 
tive; I  establish  my  pretensions  to  the  name  of  a  scholar,  and 
gain   the   credit   of  learning  while   I   sacrifice  all  its  utility. 

Another  evil  in  the  present  system  of  classical  education  is 
the  extraordinary  perfection  which  is  aimed  at  in  teaching  those 
languages;  a  needless  perfection;  an  accuracy  which  is  sought 
for  in  nothing  else.  There  are  few  boys  who  remain  to  the  age 
of  eighteen  or  nineteen  at  a  public  school,  without  making  above 
ten  thousand  Latin  verses, —  a  greater  number  than  is  contained 
in  the  ^neid;  and  after  he  has  made  this  quantity  of  verses' in 
a  dead  language,  unless  the  poet  should  happen  to  be  a  very 
weak  man  indeed,  he  never  makes  another  as  long  as  he  lives. 
It  may  be  urged,  and  it  is  urged,  that  this  is  of  use  in  teaching 
the  delicacies  of  the  language.  No  doubt  it  is  of  use  for  this 
purpose,  if  we  put  out  of  view  the  immense  time  and  trouble 
sacrificed  in  gaining  these  little  delicacies.  It  would  be  of  use 
that  we  should  go  on  till  fifty  years  of  age  making  Latin  verses, 
if  the  price  of  a  whole  life  were  not  too  much  to  pay  for  it. 
We  effect  our  object;  but  we  do  it  at  the  price  of  something 
greater  than  our  object.  And  whence  comes  it  that  the  expendi- 
ture of  life  and  labor  is  totally  put  out  of  the  calculation,  when 
Latin  and  Greek  are  to  be  attained  ?  In  every  other  occupation, 
the  question  is  fairly  stated  between  the  attainment  and  the 
time  employed  in  the  pursuit:  but  in  classical  learning,  it  seems 
to  be  sufficient  if  the  least  possible  good  is  gained  by  the  great- 
est possible  exertion;  if  the  end  is  anything,  and  the  means 
everything.  It  is  of  some  importance  to  speak  and  write  French, 
and  innumerable  delicacies  would  be  gained  by  writing  ten  thou- 
sand French  verses;  but  it  makes  no  part  of  our  education  to 
write  French  poetry.  It  is  of  some  importance  that  there  should 
be  good  botanists;  but  no  botanist  can  repeat  by  heart  the  names 
of  all  the  plants  in  the  known  world:  nor  is  any  astronomer 
acquainted  with   the   appellation  and  magnitude  of  every  star  in 


SYDNEY  SMITH  i,-(3q 

the  map  of  the  heavens.  The  only  department  of  human  knowl- 
edge in  which  there  can  be  no  excess,  no  arithmetic,  no  balance 
of  profit  and  loss,  is  classical  learning. 

The  prodigious  honor  in  which  Latin  verses  are  held  at  public 
schools  is  surely  the  most  absurd  of  all  absurd  distinctions.  You 
rest  all  reputation  upon  doing  that  which  is  a  natural  gift,  and 
which  no  labor  can  attain.  If  a  lad  won't  learn  the  words  of 
a  language,  his  degradation  in  the  school  is  a  very  natural  pun- 
ishment for  his  disobedience  or  his  indolence;  but  it  would  be  as 
reasonable  to  expect  that  all  boys  should  be  witty,  or  beautiful, 
as  that  they  should  be  poets.  In  either  case,  it  would  be  to 
make  an  accidental,  unattainable,  and  not  a  very  important  gift 
of  nature,  the  only,  or  the  principal,  test  of  merit.  This  is  the 
reason  why  boys  who  make  a  very  considerable  figure  at  school 
so  very  often  make  no  figure  in  the  world;  and  why  other  lads, 
who  are  passed  over  without  notice,  turn  out  to  be  valuable, 
important  men.  The  test  established  in  the  world  is  widely 
different  from  that  established  in  a  place  which  is  presumed  to 
be  a  preparation  for  the  world;  and  the  head  of  a  public  school, 
who  is  a  perfect  miracle  to  his  contemporaries,  finds  himself 
shrink  into  absolute  insignificance,  because  he  has  nothing  else  to 
command  respect  or  regard  but  a  talent  for  fugitive  poetry  in  a 
dead  language. 

The  present  state  of  classical  education  cultivates  the  imagi- 
nation a  great  deal  too  much,  and  other  habits  of  mind  a  great 
deal  too  little;  and  trains  up  many  young  men  in  a  style  of 
elegant  imbecility,  utterly  unworthy  of  the  talents  with  which 
nature  has  endowed  them.  It  may  .be  said  there  are  profound 
investigations,  and  subjects  quite  powerful  enough  for  any  under- 
standing, to  be  met  with  in  classical  literature.  So  there  are: 
but  no  man  likes  to  add  the  difficulties  of  a  language  to  the  diffi- 
culties of  a  subject;  and  to  study  metaphysics,  morals,  and  poli- 
tics in  Greek,  when  the  Greek  alone  is  study  enough  without 
them.  In  all  foreign  languages,  the  most  popular  works  are 
works  of  imagination.  Even  in  the  French  language,  which  we 
know  so  well,  for  one  serious  work  which  has  any  currency  in 
this  country,  we  have  twenty  which  are  mere  works  of  imagina- 
tion. This  is  still  more  true  in  classical  literature,  because  what 
their  poets  and  orators  have  left  us  is  of  infinitely  greater  value 
than  the  remains  of  their  philosophy:  for  as  society  advances, 
men  think  more  accurately  and  deeply,  and  imagine  more  tamely; 
works  of  reasoning  adv^ance,  and  works  of  fancy  decay.     So  that 


j^-^Q  SYDNEY    SMITH 

the  matter  of  fact  is,  that  a  classical  scholar  of  twenty-three  or 
twenty-four  years  of  age  is  a  man  principally  conversant  with 
works  of  imagination.  His  feelings  are  quick,  his  fancy  lively, 
and  his  taste  good.  Talents  for  speculation  and  original  inquiry 
he  has  none;  nor  has  he  formed  the  invaluable  habit  of  push- 
ing things  up  to  their  first  principles,  or  of  collecting  dry  and 
unamusing  facts  as  the  materials  of  reasoning.  All  the  solid  and 
masculine  parts  of  his  understanding  are  left  wholly  without  cul- 
tivation; he  hates  the  pain  of  thinking,  and  suspects  every  man 
whose  boldness  and  originality  call  upon  him  to  defend  his  opin- 
ions and  prove  his  assertions. 


MRS.    SIDDONS 

I  NEVER  go  to  tragedies:  my  heart  is  too  soft.  There  is  too 
much  real  misery  in  life.  But  what  a  face  she  had!  The 
gods  do  not  bestow  such  a  face  as  Mrs.  Siddons's  on  the  stage 
more  than  once  in  a  century.  I  knew  her  very  well,  and  she 
had  the  good  taste  to  laugh  heartily  at  my  jokes;  she  was  an 
excellent  person,  but  she  was  not  remarkable  out  of  her  profes- 
sion, and  never  got  out  of  tragedy  even  in  common  life.  She 
used  to  s^ad  the  potatoes;  and  said,  ^*  Boy,  give  me  a  knife!** 
as  she  would  have  said,  ^^  Give  me  the  dagger !  ** 


DOGS 

No,  I  don't  like  dogs:  I  always  expect  them  to  go  mad.  A 
lady  asked  me  once  for  a  motto  for  her  dog  Spot.  I 
proposed,  **  Out,  damned  Spot!**  but  she  did  not  think  it 
sentimental  enough.  You  remember  the  story  of  the  French 
marquise,  who,  when  her  pet  lap-dog  bit  a  piece  out  of  her  foot- 
man's leg,  exclaimed,  **Ah,  poor  little  beast!  I  hope  it  won't 
make  him  sick.**  I  called  one  day  on  Mrs.  ,  and  her  lap- 
dog  flew  at  my  leg  and  bit  it.  After  pitying  her  dog,  like  the 
French  marquise,  she  did  all  she  could  to  comfort  me  by  assur- 
ing me  the  dog  was  a  Dissenter,  and  hated  the  Church,  and 
was  brought  up  in  a  Tory  family.  But  whether  the  bite  came 
from  madness  or  Dissent,  I  knew  myself  too  well  to  neglect  it; 
and  went  on  the  instant  to  a  surgeon  and  had  it  cut  out,  making 
a  mem.  on  the  way  to  enter  that  house  no  more. 


II 


SYDNEY   SMITH  13571 


HAND-SHAKING 


ON  MEETING  a  youiig  lady  who  had  just  entered  the  garden, 
and  shaking  hands  with  her,  "I  must,'^  he  said,  "give  you 
a  lesson  in  shaking  hands,  I  see.  There  is  nothing  more 
characteristic  than  shakes  of  the  hand.  I  have  classified  them. 
Lister,  when  he  was  here,  illustrated  some  of  them.  Ask  Mrs. 
Sydney  to  show  you  his  sketches  of  them  when  you  go  in. 
There  is  the  higJi  official, —  the  body  erect,  and  a  rapid,  short 
shake,  near  the  chin.  There  is  the  mortmain, — the  fiat  hand  in- 
troduced into  your  palm,  and  hardly  conscious  of  its  contiguity. 
The  digital, —  one  finger  held  out,  much  used  by  the  high  clergy. 
There  is  the  sJiakiis  rjistiais,  where  your  hand  is  seized  in 
an  iron  grasp,  betokening  rude  health,  warm  heart,  and  distance 
from  the  Metropolis;  but  producing  a  strong  sense  of  relief  on 
your  part  when  you  find  your  hand  released  and  your  fingers 
unbroken.  The  next  to  this  is  the  retentive  shake, —  one  which, 
beginning  with  vigor,  pauses  as  it  were  to  take  breath,  but  with- 
out relinquishing  its  prey,  and  before  you  are  aware  begins 
again,  till  you  feel  anxious  as  to  the  result,  and  have  no  shake 
left  in  you.  There  are  other  varieties,  but  this  is  enough  for 
one  lesson.'* 

SMALL  MEN 

AN    ARGUMENT   arosc,   in   which   my   father  observed   how   many 
of  the  most  eminent  men  of  the  world  had  been  diminutive 
in   person;    and   after  naming  several   among   the   ancients, 
he    added,   "Why,   look    there,  at    Jeffrey;    and    there   is  my  little 

friend  ,  who  has  not  body  enough  to  cover  his  mind  decently 

with, —  his  intellect  is  improperly  exposed." 


MACAU LAY 

To  TAKE  Macaulay  out  of  literature  and  society,  and  put  him 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  is  like  taking  the  chief  physician 
out  of  London  during  a  pestilence. 
"Oh    yes!    we    both    talk    a    great    deal;    but    I    don't    believe 
Macaulay    ever    did    hear     my    voice,"    he    exclaimed    laughing. 
"Sometimes   when   I   have   told   a  good  story,    I   have  thought   to 


13572  SYDNEY   SMITH 

myself,  Poor  Macaulay!  he  will  be  very  sorry  some  day  to  have 
missed  hearing  that.'* 

I  always  prophesied  his  greatness  from  the  first  moment  I  saw 
him,  then  a  very  young  and  unknown  man  on  the  Northern  Cir- 
cuit. There  are  no  limits  to  his  knowledge,  on  small  subjects  as 
well  as  great;   he  is  like  a  book  in  breeches. 

Yes,  I  agree,  he  is  certainly  more  agreeable  since  his  return 
from  India.  His  enemies  might  have  said  before  (though  I  never 
did  so)  that  he  talked  rather  too  much ;  but  now  he  has  occasional 
flashes  of  silence,  that  make  his  conversation  perfectly  delightful. 
But  what  is  far  better  and  more  important  than  all  this  is,  that 
I  believe  Macaulay  to  be  incorruptible.  You  might  lay  ribbons, 
stars,  garters,  wealth,  title,  before  him  in  vain.  He  has  an  hon- 
est genuine  love  of  his  country,  and  the  world  could  not  bribe 
him  to  neglect  her  interests. 


SPECIE  AND   SPECIES 

• 

SYDNEY  Smith,  preaching  a  charity  sermon,  frequently  repeated 
the  assertion  that  of  all  nations.  Englishmen  were  most  dis- 
tinguished for  generosity  and  the  love  of  their  species.  The 
collection  happened  to  be  inferior  to  his  expectations,  and  he  said 
that  he  had  evidently  made  a  great  mistake,  and  that  his  expres- 
sion should  have  been  that  they  were  distinguished  for  the  love 
of  their  specie. 


D 


DANIEL   WEBSTER 

ANiEL    Webster    struck    me    much    like    a    steam-engine    in 
trousers. 


REVIEW  OF  THE  NOVEL  fGRANBY> 


THE  main   question  as  to  a  novel  is.  Did  it  amuse  ?     Were  you 
surprised  at  dinner  coming  so  soon  ?  did  you  mistake  eleven 
for  ten,  and  twelve  for  eleven  ?  were  you  too  late  to  dress  f 
and  did  you  sit  up  beyond  the  usual  hour  ?     If  a  novel  produces 
these    effects,  it    is    good;    if   it   does    not, —  story,  language,  love, 
scandal  itself,  cannot  save  it.     It  is  only  meant  to  please;   and  it 


SYDNEY  SMITH  13573 

must  do  that,  or  it  does  nothing.  Now,  *  Granby  *  *  seems  to 
us  to  answer  this  test  extremely  well:  it  produces  unpunctuality, 
makes  the  reader  too  late  for  dinner,  impatient  of  contradiction, 
and  inattentive, —  even  if  a  bishop  is  making  an  observation,  or 
a  gentleman  lately  from  the  Pyramids  or  the  Upper  Cataracts  is 
let  loose  upon  the  drawing-room.  The  objection  indeed  to  these 
compositions,  when  they  are  well  done,  is,  that  it  is  impossible  to 
do  anything  or  perform  any  human  duty  while  we  are  engaged 
in  them.  Who  can  read  Mr.  Hallam's  *  Middle  Ages,*  or  extract 
the  root  of  an  impossible  quantity,  or  draw  up  a  bond,  when  he 
is  in  the  middle  of  Mr.  Trebeck  and  Lady  Charlotte  Duncan  ? 
How  can  the  boy's  lesson  be  heard,  about  the  Jove-nourished 
Achilles,  or  his  six  miserable  verses  upon  Dido  be  corrected,  when 
Henry  Granby  and  Mr.  Courtenay  are  both  making  love  to  Miss 
Jermyn  ?  Common  life  palls  in  the  middle  of  these  artificial 
scenes.  All  is  emotion  when  the  book  is  open ;  all  dull,  flat,  and 
feeble,  when  it  is  shut. 

Granby,  a  yovmg  man  of  no  profession,  living  with  an  old 
uncle  in  the  country,  falls  in  love  with  Miss  Jermyn,  and  Miss 
Jermyn  with  him;  but  Sir  Thomas  and  Lady  Jermyn,  as  the 
young  gentleman  is  not  rich,  having  discovered  by  long  living  in 
the  world,  and  patient  observation  of  its  ways,  that  young  people 
are  commonly  Malthus-proof  and  have  children,  and  that  young 
and  old  must  eat,  very  naturally  do  what  they  can  to  discourage 
the  union.  The  young  people,  however,  both  go  to  town;  meet 
at  balls;  flutter,  blush,  look  and  cannot  speak;  speak  and  cannot 
look;  suspect,  misinterpret,  are  sad  and  mad,  peevish  and  jealous, 
fond  and  foolish:  but  the  passion,  after  all,  seems  less  near  to 
its  accomplishment  at  the  end  of  the  season  than  the  beginning. 
The  uncle  of  Granby,  however,  dies,  and  leaves  to  his  nephew  a 
statement,  accompanied  with  the  requisite  proofs,  that  Mr.  Tyrrel, 
the  supposed  son  of  Lord  Malton,  is  illegitimate,  and  that  he, 
Granby,  is  the  heir  to  Lord  IMalton's  fortune.  The  second  vol- 
ume is  now  far  advanced,  and  it  is  time  for  Lord  Malton  to  die. 
Accordingly  Mr.  Lister  very  judiciously  dispatches  him ;  Granby 
inherits  the  estate;  his  virtues  (for  what  shows  off  virtue  like 
land?)  are  discovered  by  the  Jermyns;  and  they  marr}-  in  the 
last  act. 

»<  Granby, >  a  novel  by  Thomas  Henry  Lister,  noticed  by  Sydney  Smith  in 
the  Edinburgh  Review  of  February  1826. 


13574.  SYDNEY   SMITH 

Upon  this  slender  story,  the  author  has  succeeded  in  making 
a  very  agreeable  and  interesting  novel:  and  he  has  succeeded, 
we  think,  chiefly  by  the  very  easy  and  natural  picture  of  man- 
ners as  they  really  exist  among  the  upper  classes;  by  the  de- 
scription of  new  characters,  judiciously  drawn  and  faithfully 
preserved;  and  by  the  introduction  of  many  striking  and  well- 
managed  incidents  And  we  are  particularly  struck  throughout 
the  whole  with  the  discretion  and  good  sense  of  the  author.  He 
is  never  itimioics;  there  is  nothing  in  excess:  there  is  a  good  deal 
of  fancy  and  a  great  deal  of  spirit  at  work,  but  a  directing  and 
superintending  judgment  rarely  quits  him.     .     .     . 

Tremendous  is  the  power  of  a  novelist!  If  four  or  five  men 
are  in  a  room,  and  show  a  disposition  to  break  the  peace,  no 
human  magistrate  (not  even  Mr,  Justice  Bayley)  could  do  more 
than  bind  them  over  to  keep  the  peace,  and  commit  them  if  they 
refused.  But  the  writer  of  the  novel  stands  with  a  pen  in  his 
hand,  and  can  run  any  of  them  through  the  body, —  can  knock 
down  any  one  individual  and  keep  the  others  upon  their  legs; 
or  like  the  last  scene  in  the  first  tragedy  written  by  a  young 
man  of  genius,  can  put  them  all  to  death.  Now,  an  author 
possessing  such  extraordinary  privileges  should  not  have  allowed 
Mr.  Tyrrel  to  strike  Granby.  This  is  ill  managed;  particularly 
as  Granby  does  not  return  the  blow,  or  turn  him  out  of  the 
house.  Nobody  should  suffer  his  hero  to  have  a  black  eye,  or  to 
be  pulled  by  the  nose.  The  Iliad  would  never  have  come  down 
to  these  times  if  Agamemnon  had  given  Achilles  a  box  on 
the  ear.  We  should  have  trembled  for  the  ^neid  if  any  Tyr- 
ian  nobleman  had  kicked  the  pious  ^neas  in  the  fourth  book, 
^neas  may  have  deserved  it;  but  he  could  not  have  founded  the 
Roman  Empire  after  so  distressing  an  accident. 


13575 


TOBIAS   GEORGE   SMOLLETT 

(1721-1771) 

BY   PITTS  DUFFIELD 

'mollett  is  probably  one  of  the  least  "literary^*  of  the  names 
that  live  in  English  literature.  For  a  long  time,  it  is  true, 
the  critics  took  him  over-seriously.  The  people  who  first 
had  the  task  of  writing  his  biography  and  estimating  his  genius  set 
the  example.  There  is  an  edition  of  his  works  in  1797,  twenty-six 
years  after  his  death,  in  which  Dr.  John  Moore,  before  beginning  the 
life  of  his  subject,  feels  obliged  to  expend 
himself  upon  *A  View  of  the  Commence- 
ment and  Progress  of  Romance.*  It  is  a  dis- 
sertation which  the  eighteenth-century  folks 
would  have  called  « learned  and  ingenious.'* 
It  begins  with  a  "  contrast  between  the 
manners  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  and 
those  of  the  Goths,**  examines  the  condition 
of  knight-errantry  in  the  Middle  Age,  pos- 
tulates Prince  Arthur  and  Charlemagne  as 
the  two  original  heroes  of  romance,  touches 
upon  the  troubadours,  Dante,  Cervantes,  and 
concludes  with  the  products  of  Tobias  Smol- 
lett. Subsequent  writers,  continuing  the  in- 
quiries thus  set  on  foot,  have  tried,  though 

in  vain,  to  ascribe  to  him  some  special  contribution  to  letters,  or  some 
special  importance  in  the  evolution  of  the  English  novel.  The  fact 
is,  that  Smollett  himself  would  have  been  the  first  to  jeer  at  these 
attempts  to  deal  scientifically  with  him.  He  might  have  exclaimed, 
as  he  makes  some  one  do  in  <  Humphrey  Clinker,*  that  he  would 
as  soon  expect  «to  see  the  use  of  trunk-hose  and  buttered  ale** 
deriving  itself  from  the  feudal  system.  Altogether,  it  is  not  hard  to 
find  reasons  why  his  popularity  survives  most  genuinely  among  peo- 
ple whose  interests  are  uncritical  and  unlitcrary. 

For  one  thing,  he  is  nothing  if  not  typical  of  the  English  writers 
who,  without  the  genius  which  invents  or  the  subtler  genius  which 
makes  old  matter  new,  succeed  nevertheless  by  the  sheer  force  of 
their  British  vigor  in  gaining  a  place  by  their  more  laborious  broth- 
ers.    In  all  Smollett's  novels,  where  there  is  little  anyway  that  is  not 


Smollett 


13576 


TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT 


external  in  its  aspects  and  observations,  one  finds  nothing  which  has 
not  its  origin  in  the  actual  experiences  of  his  own  life.  Born  in  1721 
in  Dalquhurn,  in  Dumbartonshire,  of  a  good  family  but  of  a  younger 
son,  he  was  dependent  all  his  life  on  what  he  could  earn  himself; 
and  believing  himself  to  be  of  a  literary  taste,  he  set  out,  after  some 
education  and  an  apprenticeship  to  a  surgeon  in  Glasgow,  upon  the 
high-road  to  London.  His  tragedy,  with  which  he  had  armed  him- 
self,—  <The  Regicide,^  a  story  drawn  from  the  powerful  romance  of 
Scottish  history,  but  treated  in  the  hopeless  pseudo-classic  manner, — 
came  to  nothing;  and  in  1741  he  got  an  appointment  as  surgeon's 
m.ate  on  one  of  the  ships  of  the  expedition  to  Carthagena.  It  was 
on  this  voyage  that  he  met  Miss  Anne  Lascelles,  a  reputed  Jamaica 
heiress,  whose  name  he  characteristically  converted  into  Nancy  Las- 
sells.  Next,  after  unsuccessful  attempts  at  practice  in  London  and  in 
Bath,  he  cooked  up  some  of  his  adventures  in  <  Roderick  Random,' 
and  for  the  first  time  was  fairly  successful.  < Peregrine  Pickle,* 
^Ferdinand,  Count  Fathom,'  a  translation  of  *  Don  Quixote,'  the  edit- 
orship of  the  Critical  Review,  his  <  History  of  England,'  ^  Sir  Latm- 
celot  Greaves,'  and  occasional  poems  and  satires,  were  some  of  the 
means  by  which  he  soiight  subsistence.  In  the  mean  time  he  had 
traveled  for  his  health  in  France  and  Italy;  in  1771,  soon  after  fin- 
ishing < Humphrey  Clinker,'  he  died  at  Leghorn;  and  is  celebrated 
there,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  Leven  in  Scotland,  by  monuments 
with  ponderous  Latin  epitaphs.  One  of  the  epitaphs  is  on  the 
theme  of  genius  unappreciated;  and  the  life  on  the  whole  was  indeed 
not  happy.  Macaulay  is  not  much  too  rhetorical  when  he  says  Smol- 
lett was  most  of  the  time  "  surrounded  by  printers'  devils  and  fam- 
ished scribblers." 

It  is  from  such  company  and  such  adventures  —  the  same,  be  it 
noted,  which  are  supposed  to  be  valuable  in  the  modern  reporter's 
stock  in  trade  —  that  Smollett  gets  his  distinguishing  characteristic: 
a  fund  of  coarse  but  lively  humor.  Dr.  John  Moore  says  somewhat 
mildly  that  ^*  in  the  ardor  of  his  satirical  and  hiimorous  chase.  Dr. 
Smollett  sometimes  leaves  delicacy  too  far  behind."  The  frankest 
and  healthiest  way  to  state  the  question  is  to  say  that  it  is  not  a 
question  of  delicacy  at  all.  A  certain  coarseness  of  fibre  in  the 
English,  often  their  strength  and  not  always  their  reproach,  was  first 
touched  upon  fearlessly  by  the  shrewd  and  observant  Hawthorne. 
What  many  brave  or  useful  or  wise  men  in  many  ages  have  sel- 
dom been  completely  without,  can  hardly  be  condemned  in  Smollett 
because  with  him  it  is  undisguised.  He  had  not  the  grace  of  the 
French,  the  specious  pathos  of  Sterne,  or  the  deliberate  euphemism 
of  the  mawkish  modern  drama,  to  conceal  the  primal  instincts  of  his 
nature.     People  have  called  Smollett  foul;  but  this,  in  certain  moods. 


TOBIAS   GEORGE   SMOLLETT  13577 

may  seem  as  wide  of  the  mark  as  to  call  him  simply  indelicate. 
■^The  Adventures  of  an  Atom  *  are  mentioned  with  a  shudder  when  it 
is  necessary  to  mention  them  at  all,  yet  they  are  scarcely  worse  than 
the  occasional  conversation  of  very  reputable  medical  students  in  all 
times.  It  may  be  questioned,  finally,  whether  it  is  any  hurt  to  a  lan- 
guage-to  have  nothing  but  specifically  vulgar  names  for  vulgar  things, 
and  so  escape  the  deification  of  lubricity  to  which  less  robust  nations 
commit  themselves.  Vigorous  and' outspoken,  irreverent,  and  some- 
times too  high-tempered,  Smollett  is  a  pervading  exemplar  of  the 
British  humorist.  He  has  indeed  the  scorn  of  affectation,  which,  in 
spite  of  his  exclusion  from  any  evolutionary  scheme  of  things,  may 
be  regarded  as  one  distinguishing  trait  of  the  modern  funny  man. 
His  attitude  toward  the  Venus  de  Medici  and  the  Pantheon  in  Rome 
—  which,  in  the  case  of  the  Venus  at  any  rate,  is  after  all  not  so  very 
discordant  with  modern  aesthetic  appreciation  —  may  be  said,  half  in 
earnest,  to  stand  for  the  kind  of  thing  Mark  Twain  and  others  have 
done  in  our  own  day.  *<  The  Pantheon,"  he  declares,  "after  all  that 
has  been  said  of  it,  looks  like  a  huge  cockpit  open  at  the  top;*^  and 
the  world  of  connoisseurs  was  in  arms  at  once.  Sterne  satirized  him 
as  the  unearned  Smelfungus,  who  set  out  with  the  spleen  and  the 
jaundice."  But  whether  it  was  the  jaundice  or  the  spleen,  the  people 
who  read  Smollett  —  who  are  rarely  the  people  who  read  only  for 
the  name  of  the  thing  —  are  just  the  ones  to  like  him  for  being  thor- 

(  oughly,  if  a  bit  brutally,  honest.  People  who  read  him  to  study  him, 
moreover,  may  remember  with   advantage    that  it  is   just   this  direct 

vjand  unaffected  habit  of  expression  that  gives  him  his  hold  on  life. 
Editions  of  his  works  have  been  numerous  and  handy;  and  many  a 
reader  who  would  yawn  over  more  delicate  tales,  however  seductive, 
finds  himself  diverted  by  his  pages.  « Since  Granville  was  turned 
out,"  he  says,  <* there  has  been  no  minister  in  this  nation  worth  the 
meal  that  whitened  his  periwig."  That  is  the  way  to  say  things  for 
the  average  man,  bent  less  on  the  speculations  of  art  than  on  hearty 
sense.  The  coarseness,  or  the  foulness,  which  people  condemn  in 
him,  is  perhaps  the  same  at  bottom  with  the  instinct  that  makes  his 
style  to-day  still  readable  and  vigorous. 

Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  — both  interest- 
ing critics  —  have  made  what  later  critics  call  the  mistake  of  crediting 
Smollett  with  the  gift  of  i  ivention.  Lady  Mary  was  perhaps  the 
more  excusable,  since  the  extraordinary  variety  of  incident  in  his 
novels  could  not  have  been  known  to  her  to  be  transcripts  from  the 
man's  life.  The  language  and  the  characters  of  British  seamen  and 
surgeons'  apprentices  — the  idiosyncrasies  of  Commodore  Trunnion. 
Pipes,  Hatchway,  and  the  famous  Tom  Bowling  — had  in  the  eigh- 
teenth  century  a  novelty  which    must  have  seemed  more  than  mere 


13578  TOBIAS  GEORGE   SMOLLETT 

reproductions.  Thackeray,  though  he  did  abundant  justice  to  Smol- 
lett's humor,  discerned  that  he  depended  less  on  invention  than  on 
copying.  The  point  now  is  that  he  had  the  resources  to  copy  from, 
and  instinctively  drew  upon  them.  In  this  again  he  may  have  fore- 
shadowed a  modern  method  of  procedure,  which  travels  about  the 
earth  in  search  of  literary  capital.  In  Smollett  are  found  many  of 
the  types  which  have  since  been  elaborated  in  special  departments 
of  fiction.  His  sea  people,  of  course,  may  have  had  their  prototypes 
in  the  drama  and  in  some  of  the  older  romances;  but  Smollett  goes 
further  in  carefully  reproducing  their  talk,  and  the  scenes  and  inci- 
dents of  their  lives.  Similarly,  though  unconsciously,  his  medical 
episodes  and  similitudes  may  be  forerunners  of  the  medico-literary 
and  psycho-physical  novels  which  find  vogue  in  our  own  days.  Wini- 
fred Jenkins,  also,  in  ^Humphrey  Clinker, >  is  one  of  the  most  laugh- 
able of  the  Malaprop  breed ;  and  her  bad  spelling,  though  it  has  been 
often  imitated,  has  rarely  been  improved  on.  So  that  if  Smollett 
cannot  have  been  a  force  in  evolution,  he  may  at  least  have  had  a 
few  germs,  whether  of  good  or  evil. 

It  is  to  be  remembered  lastly,  whatever  strictures  may  be  passed 
on  his  life  and  writings,  that  his  valedictory  was  becoming.  ^  The 
Expedition  of  Humphrey  Clinker  >  is  remarkable  for  the  transforma- 
tion and  chastening  which  overspread  his  method  and  his  manner. 
That  his  vicissitudes  troubled  him,  and  sharpened  his  temper,  may 
be  excused  in  the  fact  that  when  all  was  done  he  looked  beneficently 
on  the  world,  and  was  willing  to  amuse  it  without  making  it  laugh 
over-loudly  or  cruelly.  If  his  literary  reputation  suffers  by  what 
the  exigencies  of  his  times  and  fortunes  compelled  him  to  do,  he 
lived  through  them  to  retrieve  it.  The  style  of  *■  Humphrey  Clinker ' 
is  easy  and  familiar,  and  the  epistolary  form  in  it  more  than  usually 
adapted  to  the  desultory  manner  in  which  the  narrative  goes  forward. 
Here  the  critics  are  willing  to  admit  that  Smollett  created  charac- 
ters over  and  above  mere  types,  and  put  himself  for  once  in  a  line 
with  Sterne  and  Fielding.  Tabitha  Bramble,  Matthew  Bramble,  and 
Lismahago,  are  really  charming  additions  to  the  galleries  of  English 
portraiture.  Smollett  is  unusually  hard  to  represent  by  a  limited 
number  of  excerpts;  his  range  is  too  wide  to  be  surely  represented 
by  less  than  a  variety  of  his  pages.  Yet  if  one  selection  were  to  be 
made,  it  should  in  justice  to  him  be  taken  from  the  book  in  which 
the  worker  has  lived  through  the  years  of  drudgery  to  become  at 
last,  for  once   anyway,  the   artist. 

Like  his  great  contemporary  Fielding,  the  author  of  *■  Humphrey 
Clinker*  was  born  to  the  lot  of  literary  hack.  His  case  has  many 
resemblances  to  the  literary  workers  of  these  days, — the  days  of  in- 
numerable hacks.     He  had  in  more  ways  than  one  the  instincts,  the 


TOBIAS  GEORGE   SMOLLETT  i-^cr^ 

temper,  and  the  method  of  the  modern  newspaper  man.  The  jour- 
nalist who  travels  about  confessedly  to  get  material  differs  not  essen- 
tially from  the  writer  who  uses  what  fortuitous  travel  has  brought 
him.  A  ready  humor,  quick  wit,  and  real  though  acrid  sympathy, 
are  other  details  of  the  analogy.  The  sequel  is  only  too  apt  to  be  a 
story  of  dull  routine  and  ultimate  mediocrity.  In  the  obscurity  of 
hackdom  it  must  be,  in  some  essence  at  least,  a  fine  nature  that 
will  not  relax  its  efforts  to  do  well  what  it  has  to  do,  and  ends  by 
doing  it  better  than  ever.  Smollett  was,  throughout  his  twenty-five 
years  of  work,  a  conscientiously  careful  employer  of  the  English 
language.  Perhaps,  therefore,  a  point  of  view  more  grateful  to  him 
and  more  adequately  estimating  him,  would  be  not  that  which  com- 
pares him  disadvantageously  on  the  same  level  with  Richardson, 
Fielding,  and  Sterne;  but  that  which  credits  him  with  having  raised 
himself  from  lower  regions  to  a  place  near  them. 


Ay  ^-^y^-fc.w^_.>^ 


A  NAVAL   SURGEON'S   EXAMINATION   IN   THE   EIGHTEENTH 

CENTURY 


M' 


From  <  Roderick  Random  > 

R.  Jackson's  exordium  did  not  at  all  contribute  to  the  recov- 
ery of  my  spirits,  but  on  the  contrary,  reduced  me  to 
such  a  situation  that  I  was  scarce  able  to  stand:  which 
being  perceived  by  a  plump  gentleman  who  sat  opposite  to 
me  with  a  skull  before  him,  he  said  Mr,  Snarler  w^as  too  severe 
upon  the  young  man;  and  turning  towards  me,  told  me  I  need 
not  be  afraid,  for  nobody  would  do  me  any  harm ;  then  bidding 
me  take  time  to  recollect  myself,  he  examined  me  touching  the 
operation  of  the  trepan,  and  was  very  well  satisfied  with  my 
answers. 

The  next  person  who  questioned  me  was  a  wag,  who  began 
by  asking  if  I  had  ever  seen  an  amputation  performed ;  and  I 
replying  in  the  affirmative,  he  shook  his  head  and  said,  "Wliat! 
upon  a  dead  subject,  I  suppose?  If,*'  continued  he,  "during  an 
engagement  at  sea,  a  man  should  be  brought  to  you  with  his 
head  shot  off.  how  would  you  behave  ?  **  After  some  hesitation, 
I  owned  such  a  case  had  never  come  under  my  obsei'vation,  nei- 
ther did  I  remember  to  have  seen  any  method  of  cure  proposed 


13580  TOBIAS    GEORGE   SMOLLETT 

for  such  an  accident  in  any  of  the  systems  of  surger}^  I  had 
perused.  Whether  it  was  owing  to  the  simplicity  of  my  answer 
or  the  archness  of  the  question,  I  know  not;  but  every  mem- 
ber of  the  board  deigned  to  smile  except  Mr.  Snarler,  who  seemed 
to  have  very  little  of  the   animal  risible  in  his  constitution. 

The  facetious  member,'  encouraged  by  the  success  of  his  last 
joke,  went  on  thus:  ^*  Suppose  you  was  called  to  a  patient  of 
a  plethoric  habit  who  had  been  bruised  by  a  fall,  what  would 
you  do  ?  '^  I  answered,  ^*  I  would  bleed  him  immediately.  ** 
"  What,  ^^  said  he,  "  before  you  had  tied  up  his  arm  ?  '^  But  this 
stroke  of  wit  not  answering  his  expectation,  he  desired  me  to 
advance  to  the  gentleman  who  sat  next  him,  and  who,  with  a 
pert  air,  asked  what  method  of  cure  I  would  follow  in  wounds  of 
the  intestines.  I  repeated  the  method  of  cure  as  it  is  prescribed 
by  the  best  chirurgical  writers;  which  he  heard  to  an  end,  and 
then  said  with  a  supercilious  smile,  ^*  So  you  think  by  such  a 
treatment  the  patient  might  recover  ?  *^  I  told  him  I  saw  nothing 
to  make  me  think  otherwise.  ^^  That  may  be, ''  resumed  he ;  **  I 
won't  answer  for  your  foresight:  but  did  you  ever  know  a  case 
of  this  kind  succeed?'*  I  answered  I  did  not:  and  was  about  to 
tell  him  I  had  never  seen  a  wounded  intestine ;  but  he  stopped 
me  by  saying  with  some  precipitation,  ^*  Nor  never  will.  I  affirm 
that  all  wounds  of  the  intestines,  whether  great  or  small,  are 
mortal.'*  "Pardon  me,  brother,'*  says  the  fat  gentleman,  "there 
is  very  good  authority  — "  Here  he  was  interrupted  by  another 
with  —  "  Sir,  excuse  me,  I  despise  all  authority,  Nulliu.s  in  verba. 
I  stand  upon  my  own  bottom.**  "But,  sir,  sir,**  replied  his  an- 
tagonist, "the  reason  of  the  thing  shows — **  "A  fig  for  reason,** 
cried  this  sufficient  member:  "I  laugh  at  reason, — give  me 
ocular  demonstration,**  The  corpulent  gentleman  began  to  wax 
warm,  and  observed  that  no  man  acquainted  with  the  anatomy 
of  the  parts  would  advance  such  an  extravagant  assertion.  This 
innuendo  enraged  the  other  so  much  that  he  started  up,  and  in 
a  furious  tone  exclaimed,  "What,  sir!  do  you  question  my  knowl' 
edge  in  anatomy  ?  '*  By  this  time  all  the  examiners  had  espoused 
the  opinion  of  one  .or  the  other  of  the  disputants,  and  raised 
their  voices  all  together;  when  the  chairman  commanded  silence, 
and  ordered  me  to  withdraw. 

In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  was  called  in  again, 
received  my  qualification  sealed  up,  and  was  ordered  to  pay  five 
shillings.      I  laid   down  my  half-guinea  upon  the  table,  and  stood 


TOBIAS   GEORGE   SMOLLETT 


13581 


some  time  until  one  of  them  bade  me  begone:  to  this  I  replied, 
^*  I  will,  when  I  have  got  my  change;"  upon  which  another  threw 
me  five  shillings  and  sixpence,  saying  I  would  not  be  a  true 
Scotchman  if  I  went  away  without  my  change.  I  was  afterwards 
obliged  to  give  three  shillings  and  sixpence  to  the  beadles,  and 
a  shilling  to  an  old  woman  who  swept  the  hall.  This  disburse- 
ment sunk  my  finances  to  thirteen  pence  halfpenny,  with  which 
I  was  sneaking  off;  when  Jackson,  perceiving  it,  came  up  to  me 
and  begged  I  would  tarry  for  him,  and  he  would  accompany  me 
to  the  other  end  of  the  town  as  soon  as  his  examination  should 
be  over. 

I  could  not  refuse  this  to  a  person  that  was  so  much  my 
friend;  but  I  was  astonished  at  the  change  of  his  dress,  which 
was  varied  in  half  an  hour  from  what  I  have  already  described, 
to  a  very  grotesque  fashion.  His  head  was  covered  with  an 
old  smoked  tie-wig  that  did  not  boast  one  crooked  hair,  and 
a  slouched  hat  over  it  which  would  have  very  well  become  a 
chimney-sweeper  or  a  dustman;  his  neck  was  adorned  with  a 
black  crape,  the  ends  of  which  he  had  twisted  and  fixed  in  the 
buttonhole  of  a  shabby  greatcoat  that  wrapt  up  his  whole  body; 
his  white  silk  stockings  were  converted  into  black  worsted  hose; 
and  his  countenance  was  rendered  venerable  by  wrinkles  and  a 
beard  of  his  own  painting.  When  I  expressed  my  surprise  at 
this  metamorphosis,  he  laughed,  and  told  me  it  was  done  by  the 
advice  and  assistance  of  a  friend  who  lived  over  the  way,  and 
would  certainly  produce  something  very  much  to  his  advan- 
tage; for  it  gave  him  the  appearance  of  age,  which  never  fails 
of    attracting   respect. 

I  applauded  his  sagacity,  and  waited  with  impatience  for  the 
effects  of  it.  At  length  he  was  called  in:  but  whether  the 
oddness  of  his  appearance  excited  a  curiosity  more  than  usual 
in  the  board,  or  his  behavior  was  not  suitable  to  his  figure,  I 
know  not;  he  was  discovered  to  be  an  impostor,  and  put  into 
the  hands  of  the  beadle,  in  order  to  be  sent  to  bridewell.  So 
that  instead  of  seeing  him  come  out  with  a  cheerful  counte- 
nance and  a  surgeon's  qualification  in  his  hand,  I  perceived  him 
led  through  the  outward  hall  as  a  prisoner,  and  was  very  much 
alarmed  and  anxious  to  know  the  occasion;  when  he  called  with 
a  lamentable  voice  and  piteous  aspect  to  me,  and  some  others 
who  knew  him,  ^*  For  God's  sake,  gentlemen,  bear  witness  that 
I  am  the  same  individual,  John  Jackson,  who  served  as  surgeon's 


£3582  TOBIAS   GEORGE   SMOLLETT 

second  mate  on  board  the  Elizabeth, —  or  else  I  shall  go  to 
bridewell.'*  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  the  most  aus- 
tere hermit  that  ever  lived  to  have  refrained  from  laughing  at 
his  appearance  and  address:  we  therefore  indulged  ourselves  a 
good  while  at  his  expense,  and  afterwards  pleaded  his  cause  so 
effectually  with  the  beadle,  who  was  gratified  with  half  a  crown, 
that  the  prisoner  was  dismissed,  and  in  a  few  moments  resumed 
his  former  gayety;  swearing,  since  the  board  had  refused  his 
money,  he  would  spend  it  every  shilling  before  he  went  to  bed 
in  treating  his  friends;  at  the  same  time  inviting  us  all  to  favor 
him  with  our  company. 


RODERICK   IS  « PRESSED))  INTO  THE  NAVY 
From  <  Roderick  Random  > 

I  SAW  no  resource  but  the  army  or  navy;  between  which  I  hesi- 
tated so  long  that  I  found  myself  reduced  to  a  starving 
condition.  My  spirit  began  to  accommodate  itself  to  my  beg- 
garly fate,  and  I  became  so  mean  as  to  go  down  towards  Wap- 
ping,  with  an  intention  to  inquire  for  an  old  schoolfellow,  who, 
I  understood,  had  got  the  command  of  a  small  coasting  vessel, 
then  in  the  river,  and  implore  his  assistance.  But  my  destiny 
prevented  this  abject  piece  of  behavior;  for  as  I  crossed  Tower 
Wharf,  a  squat,  tawny  fellow,  with  a  hanger  by  his  side  and  a 
cudgel  in  his  hand,  came  up  to  me,  calling,  ^*Yo!  ho!  brother: 
you  must  come  along  with  me !  **  As  I  did  not  like  his  appear- 
ance, instead  of  answering  his  salutation  I  quickened  my  pace, 
in  hope  of  ridding  myself  of  his  company;  upon  which  he  whis- 
tled aloud,  and  immediately  another  sailor  appeared  before  me, 
who  laid  hold  of  me  by  the  collar  and  began  to  drag  me  along. 
Not  being  in  a  humor  to  relish  such  treatment,  I  disengaged 
myself  of  the  assailant,  and  with  one  blow  of  my  cudgel  laid 
him  motionless  on  the  ground;  and  perceiving  myself  surrounded 
in  a  trice  by  ten  or  a  dozen  more,  exerted  myself  with  such  dex- 
terity and  success  that  some  of  my  opponents  were  fain  to  attack 
me  with  drawn  cutlasses:  and  after  an  obstinate  engagement,  in 
which  I  received  a  large  wound  on  my  head  and  another  on  my 
left  cheek,  I  was  disarmed,  taken  prisoner,  and  carried  on  board 
a  pressing-tender;  where,  after  being  pinioned  like  a  malefactor, 
I  was  thrust   down   into   the  hold   among  a  parcel  of  miserable 


TOBIAS  GEORGE   SMOLLETT  ll^S'? 

wretches,  the  sight  of  whom  well-nigh  distracted  me.  As  the 
commanding  officer  had  not  humanity  enough  to  order  my 
wounds  to  be  dressed,  and  I  could  not  use  my  own  hands,  I 
desired  one  of  my  fellow-captives,  who  was  unfettered,  to  take 
a  handkerchief  out  of  my  pocket,  and  tie  it  round  my  head  to 
stop  the  bleeding.  He  pulled  out  my  handkerchief,  'tis  true;  but 
instead  of  applying  it  to  the  use  for  which  I  designed  it,  went 
to  the  grating  of  the  hatchway,  and  with  astonishing  composure 
sold  it  before  my  face  to  a  bumboat  woman  then  on  board,  for 
a  quart  of  gin,  with  which  he  treated  my  companions,  regardless 
of  my  circumstances  and   entreaties. 

I  complained  bitterly  of  this  robbery  to  the  midshipman  on 
deck,  telling  him  at  the  same  time  that  unless  my  hurts  were 
dressed  I  should  bleed  to  death.  But  compassion  was  a  weak- 
ness of  which  no  man  could  justly  accuse  this  person,  who, 
squirting  a  mouthful  of  dissolved  tobacco  iipon  me  through  the 
gratings,  told  me  ^*  I  was  a  mutinous  dog,  and  that  I  might  die 
and  be  d — d.**  Finding  there  was  no  other  remedy,  I  appealed 
to  patience,  and  laid  up  this  usage  in  my  memory,  to  be  recalled 
at  a  fitter  season.  In  the  mean  time,  loss  of  blood,  vexation,  and 
want  of  food,  contributed  with  the  noisome  stench  of  the  place 
to  throw  me  into  a  swoon ;  out  of  which  I  was  recovered  by  a 
tweak  of  the  nose,  administered  by  the  tar  who  stood  sentinel  over 
us,  who  at  the  same  time  regaled  me  with  a  draught  of  flip,  and 
comforted  me  with  the  hopes  of  being  put  on  board  the  Thunder 
next  day,  where  I  should  be  freed  of  my  handcuffs,  and  cured  of 
my  wounds  by  the  doctor.  I  no  sooner  heard  him  name  the 
Thunder,  than  I  asked  if  he  had  belonged  to  that  ship  long .'  and 
he  giving  me  to  understand  he  had  belonged  to  her  five  years, 
I  inquired  if  he  knew  Lieutenant  Bowling  ?  "  Know  Lieutenant 
Bowling  ?  **  said  he,  "  odds  my  life !  and  that  I  do :  and  a  good 
seaman  he  is  as  ever  stepped  upon  forecastle;  and  a  brave  fellow 
as  ever  cracked  biscuit:  none  of  your  guinea-pigs,  nor  your  fresh- 
water, wishy-washy,  fair-weather  fowls.  Many  a  tough  gale  of 
wind  has  honest  Tom  Bowling  and  I  weathered  together.  Here's 
his  health  with  all  my  heart,  wherever  he  is,  aloft  or  alow;  in 
heaven  or  in  hell;  all's  one  for  that  —  he  needs  not  be  ashamed 
to  show  himself."  I  was  so  much  afTected  with  this  eulogium 
that  I  could  not  refrain  from  telling  him  that  I  was  Lieuten- 
ant Bowling's  kinsman;  in  consequence  of  which  connection  he 
expressed  an  inclination  to  serve  me;  and  when  he  was  relieved. 


13584 


TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT 


brought  some  cold  boiled  beef  in  a  platter,  and  biscuit,  on  which 
we  supped  plentifully,  and  afterwards  drank  another  can  of  flip 
together. 

While  we  were  thus  engaged,  he  recounted  a  great  many 
exploits  of  my  uncle,  who  I  found  was  very  much  beloved  by 
the  ship's  company,  and  pitied  for  the  misfortune  that  had 
happened  to  him  in  Hispaniola,  which  I  was  very  glad  to  be 
informed  was  not  so  great  as  I  imagined;  for  Captain  Oakum 
had  recovered  of  his  wounds,  and  actually  at  that  time  com- 
manded the  ship.  Having  by  accident  in  my  pocket  my  uncle's 
letter,  written  from  Port  Louis,  I  gave  it  to  my  benefactor  (whose 
name  was  Jack  Rattlin)  for  his  perusal;  but  honest  Jack  told  me 
frankly  he  could  not  read,  and  desired  to  know  the  contents, — 
which  I  immediately  communicated.  When  he  heard  that  part 
of  it  in  which  he  says  he  had  written  to  his  landlord  in  Deal, 
he  cried, —  <' Body  o'  me!  that  was  old  Ben  Block:  he  was  dead 
before  the  letter  came  to  hand.  Ey,  ey,  had  Ben  been  alive. 
Lieutenant  Bowling  would  have  had  no  occasion  to  skulk  so  long. 
Honest  Ben  was  the  first  man  that  taught  him  to  hand,  reef, 
and  steer. —  Well,  well,  we  must  all  die,  that's  certain;  we  must 
all  come  to  port  sooner  or  later,  at  sea  or  on  shore;  we  must 
be  fast  moored  one  day;  death's  like  the  best  bower-anchor,  as 
the   saying   is, —  it  will  bring  us  all  up.  *^ 

I  could  not  but  signify  my  approbation  of  the  justness  of 
Jack's  reflections;  and  inquired  into  the  occasion  of  the  quar- 
rel between  Captain  Oakum  and  my  uncle,  which  he  explained 
in  this  manner.  **  Captain  Oakum,  to  be  sure,  is  a  good  man 
enough;  besides,  he's  my  commander:  but  what's  that  to  me?  I 
do  my  duty,  and  value  no  man's  anger  of  a  rope's-end.  Now 
the  report  goes  as  how  he's  a  lord,  or  baron-knight's  brother, 
whereby,  d'ye  see  me,  he  carries  a  straight  arm,  and  keeps  aloof 
from  his  officers,  thof  mayhap  they  may  be  as  good  men  in  the 
main  as  he.  Now,  we  lying  at  anchor  in  Tuberoon  Bay,  Lieu- 
tenant Bowling  had  the  middle  watch:  and  as  he  always  kept 
a  good  lookout,  he  made,  d'ye  see,  three  lights  in  the  offing, 
whereby  he  ran  down  to  the  great  cabin  for  orders,  and  found 
the  captain  asleep;  whereupon  he  waked  him,  which  put  him  in 
a  main  high  passion,  and  he  swore  woundily  at  the  lieutenant, 
and  called  him  swab  and  lubber,  whereby  the  lieutenant  returned 
the  salute,  and  they  jawed  together,  fore  and  aft,  a  good  spell, 
till   at  last  the   captain  turned  out,  and  laying  hold  of  a  rattan, 


TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT  i^S^S 

came  athwart  Mr.  Bowling's  quarter;  whereby  he  told  the  cap- 
tain that  if  he  was  not  his  commander  he  would  heave  him 
overboard,  and  demanded  satisfaction  ashore;  whereby  in  the 
morning  watch  the  captain  went  ashore  in  the  pinnace,  and 
afterwards  the  lieutenant  carried  the  cutter  ashore;  and  so  they, 
leaving  the  boats'  crews  on  their  oars,  went  away  together;  and 
so,  d'ye  see,  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  we  heard  firing, 
whereby  we  made  for  the  place,  and  found  the  captain  lying 
wounded  on  the  beach,  and  so  brought  him  on  board  to  the  doc- 
tor, who  cured  him  in  less  than  six  weeks.  But  the  lieutenant 
clapped  on  all  the  sail  he  could  bear,  and  had  got  f;.r  enough 
ahead  before  we  knew  anything  of  the  matter,  so  that  we  could 
never  after  get  sight  of  him;  for  which  we  were  not  sorry, 
because  the  captain  was  mainly  wroth,  and  would  certainly  have 
done  him  a  mischief;  for  he  afterwards  caused  him  to  be  run  on 
the  ship's  books,  whereby  he  lost  all  his  pay,  and  if  he  should  be 
taken  would  be  tried  as  a  deserter.** 

This  account  of  the  captain's  behavior  gave  me  no  advan- 
tageous idea  of  his  character;  and  I  could  not  help  lament- 
ing my  own  fate,  that  had  subjected  me  to  such  a  commander 
However,  making  a  virtue  of  necessity,  I  put  a  good  face  on  the 
matter,  and  next  day  w?s,  with  the  other  pressed  men,  put  on 
board  the  Thimder,  lying  at  the  Nore.  When  we  came  alongside, 
the  mate  who  guarded  us  thither  ordered  my  handcuffs  to  be 
taken  off,  that  I  might  get  on  board  the  easier.  This  circumstance 
being  perceived  'oy  some  of  the  company  who  stood  upon  the 
gang-boards  to  see  us  enter,  one  of  them  called  to  Jack  Rattlin, 
who  was  busy  in  doing  this  friendly  office  for  me, —  "Hey,  Jack, 
what  Newgate  galley  have  you  boarded  in  the  river  as  you  came 
along  ?  have  we  not  thieves  enow  among  us  already  ?  **  Another, 
observing  my  wounds  which  remained  exposed  to  the  air,  told 
me  my  seams  were  uncalked,  and  tliat  I  must  be  new  payed. 
A  third,  seeing  my  hair  clotted  together  witli  blood,  as  it  were, 
into  distinct  cords,  took  notice  that  my  bows  were  manned  with 
the  red  ropes  instead  of  my  side.  A  fourtli  asked  me  if  I  could 
not  keep  my  yards  square  without  iron  braces  ?  And  in  short, 
a  thousand  witticisms  of  th'..  same  nature  were  passed  upon  me 
before  I  could  get  up  the  ship's  side.  After  we  had,  been  all 
entered  upon  the  ship's  books,  I  inquired  of  one  of  my  shipmates 
where  the  surgeon  was,  that  I  might  have  my  wounds  dressed; 
and  had    actually  got   as    far  as    the   middle   deck  — for   our  ship 


I35S6 


TOBIAS  GEORGE   SMOLLETT 


carried  eighty  guns — in  my  way  to  the  cockpit,  when  I  was 
met  by  the  same  midshipman  who  had  used  me  so  barbarously 
in  the  tender.  He,  seeing  me  free  from  my  chains,  asked  with 
an  insolent  air  who  had  released  me  ? 

To  this  question  I  foolishly  answered,  with  a  countenance  that 
too  plainly  declared  the  state  of  my  thoughts,  ^^  Whoever  did  it, 
I  am   persuaded,   did  not  consult  you   in    the   affair.*^      I  had  no 

sooner  uttered  these  words,  than  he  cried,  ^*  You  ,   I'll  teach 

you  to  talk  so  to  your  officer.*^  So  saying,  he  bestowed  on 
me  several  stripes  with  a  supple-jack  he  had  in  his  hand;  and 
going  to  the  commanding  officer,  made  such  a  report  of  me  that 
I  was  immediately  put  in  irons  by  the  master-at-arms,  and  a  sen- 
tinel placed  over  me.  Honest  Rattlin,  as  soon  as  he  heard  of 
my  condition,  came  to  me,  and  administered  all  the  consolation 
he  could;  and  then  went  to  the  surgeon  in  my  behalf,  who  sent 
one  of  his  mates  to  dress  my  wounds. 

This  mate  was  no  other  than  my  old  friend  Thompson,  with 
whom  I  became  acquainted  at  the  navy  office,  as  before  men- 
tioned. If  I  knew  him  at  first  sight,  it  was  not  easy  for  him  to 
recognize  me,  disfigured  with  blood  and  dirt,  and  altered  by  the 
misery  I  had  undergone.  Unknown  as  I  was  to  him,  he  sur- 
veyed me  with  looks  of  compassion;  and  handled  my  sores  with 
great  tenderness.  When  he  had  applied  what  he  thought  proper, 
and  was  about  to  leave  me,  I  asked  him  if  my  misfortunes 
had  disguised  me  so  much  that  he  could  not  recollect  my  face  ? 
Upon  this  address,  he  observed  me  with  great  earnestness  for 
some  time,  and  at  length  protested  that  he  could  not  recollect 
one  feature  of  my  countenance.  To  keep  him  no  longer  in  sus- 
pense, I  told  him  my  name:  which  when  he  heard,  he  embraced 
me  with  affection,  and  professed  his  sorrow  at  seeing  me  in  such 
a  disagreeable  situation.  I  made  him  acquainted  with  my  story; 
and  when  he  heard  how  inhumanly  I  had  been  used  in  the  ten- 
der, he  left  me  abruptly,  assuring  me  I  should  see  him  again 
soon.  I  had  scarce  time  to  wonder  at  his  sudden  departure, 
when  the  master-at-arms  came  to  the  place  of  my  confinement 
and  bade  me  follow  him  to  the  quarter-deck;  where  I  was  exam- 
ined by  the  first  lieutenant,  who  commanded  the  ship  in  the 
absence  of  the  captain,  touching  the  treatment  I  had  received  in 
the  tender  from  my  friend  the  midshipman,  who  was  present  to 
confront  me.  I  recounted  the  particulars  of  his  behavior  to  me, 
not  only  in  the  tender,  but  since  my  being  on  board  the  ship; 


TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT  ^35^7 

part  of  which  being  proved  by  the  evidence  of  Jack  Rattlin  and 
others,  who  had  no  gre.at  devotion  for  my  oppressor,  I  was  dis- 
charged from  confinement  to  make  way  for  him,  who  was  deliv- 
ered to  the  master-at-arms  to  take  his  turn  in  the  bilboes.  And 
this  was  not  the  only  satisfaction  I  enjoyed;  for  I  was,  at  the 
request  of  the  surgeon,  exempted  from  all  other  duty  than  that 
of  assisting  his  mates  in  making  and  administering  medicines 
to  the  sick.  This  good  office  I  owed  to  the  friendship  of  Mr. 
Thompson,  who  had  represented  me  in  such  a  favorable  light  to 
the  surgeon  that  he  demanded  me  of  the  lieutenant  to  supply 
f'he  place  of  his  third  mate,  who  was  lately  dead. 


RODERICK    VISITS   A   GAMING-HOUSE 
From    <  Roderick   Random  > 

AT  LENGTH,  howcvcr,  finding  myself  reduced  to  my  last  guinea, 
I  was  compelled  to  disclose  my  necessity,  though  I  endeav- 
ored to  sweeten  the  discovery  by  rehearsing  to  him  the  daily 
assurances  I  received  from  my  patron.  But  these  promises  were 
not  of  efficacy  sufficient  to  support  the  spirits  of  my  friend,  who 
no  sooner  understood  the  lowness  of  my  finances,  than  uttering 
a  dreadful  groan,  he  exclaimed,  **  In  the  name  of  God,  what  shall 
we  do !  '^  In  order  to  comfort  him,  I  said  that  many  of  my 
acquaintance  who  were  in  a  worse  condition  than  we,  supported 
notwithstanding  the  character  of  gentlemen;  and  advising  him 
to  thank  God  that  we  had  as  yet  incurred  no  debt,  proposed  he 
should  pawn  my  sword  of  steel  inlaid  with  gold,  and  trust  to  my 
discretion  for  the  rest.  This  expedient  was  wormwood  and  gall 
to  poor  Strap,  who,  in  spite  of  his  invincible  affection  for  me, 
still  retained  notions  of  economy  and  expense  suitable  to  the 
narrowness  of  his  education;  nevertheless  he  complied  with  my 
request,  and  raised  seven  pieces  on  the  sword  in  a  twinkling. 
This  supply,  inconsiderable  as  it  was,  made  me  as  happy  for  the 
present  as  if  I  had  kept  five  hundred  pounds  in  bank:  for  by 
this  time  I  was  so  well  skilled  in  procrastinating  every  trouble- 
some reflection  that  the  prospect  of  want  seldom  affected  me 
much,  let  it  be  never  so  near.  And  now  indeed  it  was  nearer 
than  I  imagined :  my  landlord,  having  occasion  for  money,  put 
me  in  mind  of  my  being  indebted  to  him  five  guineas  for  lodg- 
ing, and  telling  me  he  had  a  sum  to  make  up,  begged   I   would 


J2c88  TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT 

excuse  his  importunity  and  discharge  the  debt.  Though  I  could 
ill  spare  so  much  cash,  my  pride  took  the  resolution  of  disburs- 
ing it.  This  I  did  in  a  cavalier  manner;  after  he  had  written  a 
discharge,  telling  him  with  an  air  of  scorn  and  resentment  I  saw 
he  was  resolved  that  I  should  not  be  long  in  his  books:  while 
Strap,  who  stood  by  and  knew  my  circumstances,  wrung  his 
hands  in  secret,  gnawed  his  nether-lip,  and  turned  yellow  with 
despair.  Whatever  appearance  of  indifference  my  vanity  enabled 
me  to  put  on,  I  was  thunderstruck  with  this  demand,  which  I 
had  no  sooner  satisfied  than  I  hastened  into  company,  with  a 
view  of  beguiling  my  cares  with  conversation,  or  of  drowning 
them  with  wine. 

After  dinner  a  party  was  accordingly  made  in  the  coffee- 
house, from  whence  we  adjourned  to  the  tavern;  where,  instead 
of  sharing  the  mirth  of  the  company,  I  was  as  much  chagrined 
at  their  good-humor  as  a  damned  soul  in  hell  would  be  at  a 
glimpse  of  heaven.  In  vain  did  I  swallow  bumper  after  bumper; 
the  wine  had  lost  its  effect  upon  me,  and  far  from  raising  my 
dejected  spirits,  could  not  even  lay  me  asleep.  Banter,  who  was 
the  only  intimate  I  had  (Strap  excepted),  perceived  my  anxi- 
ety, and  when  we  broke  up  reproached  me  with  pusillanimity, 
for  being  cast  down  at  any  disappointment  that  such  a  rascal  as 
Strutwell  could  be  the  occasion  of.  I  told  him  I  did  not  at  all 
see  how  Strutwell's  being  a  rascal  alleviated  my  misfortune;  and 
gave  him  to  understand  that  my  present  grief  did  not  so  much 
proceed  from  that  disappointment  as  from  the  low  ebb  of  my 
fortune,  which  was  sunk  to  something  less  than  two  guineas.  At 
this  declaration  he  cried,  "  Pshaw !  is  that  all  ?  ^'  and  assured  me 
there  were  a  thousand  ways  of  living  in  town  without  a  fortune, 
he  himself  having  subsisted  many  years  entirely  by  his  wit.  I 
expressed  an  eager  desire  of  becoming  acquainted  with  some  of 
these  methods;  and  he,  without  further  expostulation,  bade  me 
follow  him. 

He  conducted  me  to  a  house  under  the  piazzas  in  Covent 
Garden,  which  we  entered,  and  having  delivered  our  swords  to 
a  grim  fellow  who  demanded  them  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase, 
ascended  to  the  second  story,  where  I  saw  multitudes  of  people 
standing  round  two  gaming-tables,  loaded  in  a  manner  with  gold 
and  silver.  My  conductor  told  me  this  was  the  house  of  a 
worthy  Scotch  lord,  who,  using  the  privilege  of  his  peerage,  had 
set  up  public  gaming-tables,  from  the  profits  of  which  he  drew  a 


TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT  13 "So 

comfortable  livelihood.  He  then  explained  the  difference  between 
the  sitters  and  the  betters;  characterized  the  first  as  *^  old  hooks," 
and  the  last  as  "  bubbles  '^ :  and  advised  me  to  try  my  fortune  at 
the  silver  table,  by  betting  a  crown  at  a  time.  Before  I  would 
venture  anything,  I  considered  the  company  more  particularly; 
and  there  appeared  such  a  group  of  villainous  faces  that  I  was 
struck  with  horror  and  astonishment  at  the  sight.  I  signified  my 
surprise  to  Banter,  who  whispered  in  my  ear  that  the  bulk  of 
those  present  were  sharpers,  highwaymen,  and  appreT?tices  who 
having  embezzled  their  masters'  cash,  made  a  desperate  push 
in  this  place  to  make  up  their  deficiencies.  This  account  did 
not  encourage  me  to  hazard  any  part  of  my  small  pittance;  but 
at  length,  being  teased  by  the  importunities  of  my  friend,  who 
assured  me  there  was  no  danger  of  being  ill  used,  because  peo- 
ple were  hired  by  the  owner  to  see  justice  done  to  everybody,  I 
began  by  risking  one  shilling,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  my  win- 
ning amounted  to  thirty.  Convinced  by  this  time  of  the  fair- 
ness of  the  game,  and  animated  with  success,  there  was  no  need 
of  further  persuasion  to  continue  the  play.  I  lent  Banter  (who 
seldom  had  any  money  in  his  pocket)  a  guinea,  which  he  carried 
to  the  gold  table,  and  lost  in  a  moment.  He  would  have  bor- 
rowed another;  but  finding  me  deaf  to  his  arguments,  went  away 
in  a  pet.  Meanwhile  my  gain  advanced  to  six  pieces,  and  my 
desire  for  more  increased  in  proportion;  so  that  I  moved  to  the 
higher  table,  where  I  laid  half  a  guinea  on  every  throw:  and 
fortune  still  favoring  me,  I  became  a  sitter,  in  which  capacity 
I  remained  until  it  was  broad  day;  when  I  found  myself,  after 
many  vicissitudes,  one  hundred  and  fifty  guineas  in  pocket. 

Thinking  it  now  high  time  to  retire  with  my  booty,  I  asked 
if  anybody  would  take  my  place,  and  made  a  motion  to  rise; 
upon  which  an  old  Gascon  who  sat  opposite  to  me,  and  of  whom  I 
had  won  a  little  money,  started  up  with  fury  in  his  looks,  crying, 
*  Restez,  restez :  il  faut  donner  moi  mon  ravanchio ! "  At  the 
same  time,  a  Jew  who  sat  near  the  other  insinuated  that  I  was 
more  beholden  to  art  than  to  fortune  for  what  I  had  got;  that 
he  had  observed  me  wipe  the  table  very  often,  and  that  some  of 
the  divisions  seemed  to  be  greasy.  This  intimation  produced  a 
great  deal  of  clamor  against  me,  especially  among  the  losers; 
who  threatened,  with  many  oaths  and  imprecations,  to  take  me 
up  by  a  warrant  as  a  sharper,  imless  I  would  compromise  the 
affair  by  refunding  the  greatest   part  of  my  winning      Though  I 


j^roo  TOBIAS  GEORGE   SMOLLETT 

was  far  from  being  easy  under  this  accusation,  I  relied  upon  my 
innocence,  threatened  in  my  turn  to  prosecute  the  Jew  for  defa- 
mation, and  boldly  offered  to  submit  my  cause  to  the  examina- 
tion of  any  justice  in  Westminster:  but  they  knew  themselves  too 
well  to  put  their  characters  on  that  issue;  and  finding  I  was  not 
to  be  intimidated  into  any  concession,  dropped  their  plea  and 
made  way  for  me  to  withdraw.  I  would  not,  however,  stir  from 
the  table  until  the  Israelite  had  retracted  what  he  had  said  to 
my  disadvantage,  and  asked  pardon  before  the  whole  assembly. 
As  I  marched  out  with  my  prize  I  happened  to  tread  upon 
the  toes  of  a  tall  raw-boned  fellow,  with  a  hooked  nose,  fierce 
eyes,  black  thick  eyebrows,  a  pigtail  wig  of  the  same  color,  and 
a  formidable  hat  pulled  over  his  forehead,  who  stood  gnawing 
his  fingers  in  the  crowd,  and  no  sooner  felt  the  application  of 
my  shoe-heel  than  he  roared  out  in  a  tremendous  voice,  "  Blood 
and  wounds !  what's  that  for  ?  '^  I  asked  pardon  with  a  great 
deal  of  submission,  and  protested  I  had  no  intention  of  hurting 
him :  but  the  more  I  humbled  myself  the  more  he  stormed,  and 
insisted  upon  gentlemanly  satisfaction,  at  the  same  time  provok- 
ing me  with  scandalous  names  that  I  could  not  put  up  with;  so 
that  I  gave  a  loose  to  my  passion,  returned  his  billingsgate,  and 
challenged  him  to  follow  me  down  to  the  piazzas.  His  indigna- 
tion cooling  as  mine  warmed,  he  refused  my  invitation,  saying 
he  would  choose  his  own  time,  and  returned  towards  the  table, 
muttering  threats  which  I  neither  dreaded  nor  distinctly  heard; 
but  descending  with  great  deliberation,  received  my  sword  from 
the  doorkeeper,  whom  I  gratified  with  a  guinea  according  to  the 
custom  of  the  place,  and  went  home  in  a  rapture  of  joy. 


OLD-FASHIONED   LOVE-MAKING:  AN   OLD-FASHIONED 

WEDDING 

From  < Peregrine  Pickle^ 

PEREGRINE,  whosc  health  required  the  enjoyment  of  fresh  air 
after  his  long  confinement,  sent  a  message  to  Emilia  that 
same  night  annomicing  his  arrival,  and  giving  her  notice 
that  he  would  breakfast  with  her  next  morning;  when  he  and 
our  hero,  who  had  dressed  himself  for  the  purpose,  taking  a 
hackney-coach,  repaired  to  her  lodging,  and  were  introduced  into 
a  parlor   adjoining   that   in   which   the   tea-table   was   set.      Here 


TUBIAS   GEORGE   SMOLLETT  I359t 

they  had  not  waited  many  minutes  when  they  heard  the  sound 
of  feet  coming  down-stairs;  upon  which  our  hero's  heart  began 
to  beat  the  alarm.  He  concealed  himself  behind  the  screen, 
by  the  direction  of  his  friend,  whose  ears  being  saluted  with 
Sophy's  voice  from  the  next  room,  he  flew  into  it  with  great 
ardor,  and  enjoyed  upon  her  lips  the  sweet  transports  of  a  meet- 
ing so  unexpected;  for  he  had  left  her  in  her  father's  house  at 
Windsor. 

Amidst  these  emotions,  he  had  almost  forgotten  the  situation 
of  Peregrine ;  when  Emilia,  assuming  her  enchanting  air, —  **  Is 
not  this,'*  said  she,  ^*  a  most  provoking  scene  to  a  young  woman 
like  me,  who  am  doomed  to  wear  the  willow,  by  the  strange 
caprice  of  my  lover  ?  Upon  my  word,  brother,  you  have  done 
me  infinite  prejudice  in  promoting  this  jaunt  with  my  obstinate 
correspondent,  who,  I  suppose,  is  so  ravished  with  this  transient 
glimpse  of  liberty  that  he  will  never  be  persuaded  to  incur  un- 
necessary confinement  for  the  future.*'  "My  dear  sister,'*  replied 
the  captain  tauntingly,  <<  your  own  pride  set  him  the  example ; 
so  you  must  e'en  stand  to  the  consequence  of  his  imitation." 
" 'Tis  a  hard  case,  however,"  answered  the  fair  offender,  *' that 
I  should  suffer  all  my  life  by  one  venial  trespass.  Heigh  ho! 
who  would  imagine  that  a  sprightly  girl  such  as  I,  with  ten 
thousand  pounds,  should  go  a-begging  ?  I  have  a  good  mind  to 
marry  the  next  person  that  asks  me  the  question,  in  order  to  be 
revenged  upon  this  unyielding  humorist.  Did  the  dear  fellow 
discover  no  inclination  to  see  me,  in  all  the  term  of  his  release- 
ment  ?  Well,  if  ever  I  catch  the  fugitive  again,  he  shall  sing  in 
his  cage  for  life." 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  to  the  reader  a  just  idea  of  Per- 
egrine's transports  while  he  overheard  this  declaration, —  which 
was  no  sooner  pronounced,  than,  unable  to  resist  the  impetuos- 
ity of  his  passion,  he  sprung  from  his  lurking-place,  exclaiming, 
*  Here  I  surrender!"  and  rushing  into  her  presence,  was  so  daz- 
zled with  her  beauty  that  his  speech  failed:  he  was  fixed  like  a 
statue  to  the  floor;  and  all  his  faculties  were  absorbed  in  admi- 
ration. Indeed  she  was  now  in  the  full  bloom  of  her  charms, 
and  it  was  nearly  impossible  to  look  upon  her  without  emotion. 
The  ladies  screamed  with  surprise  at  his  appearance,  and  Emilia 
underwent  such  agitation  as  flushed  every  charm  with  irresistible 
energy. 

While  he  was  almost  fainting  with  unutterable  delight,  she 
seemed    to   sink  under  the   tumults  of   tenderness  and   confusion, 


13592  TOBIAS    GEORGE    .SMOLLETT 

when  our  hero,  perceiving  her  condition,  obeyed  the  impulse  of 
his  love  and  circled  the  charmer  in  his  arms,  without  suffering 
the  least  frown  or  symptom  of  displeasure.  Not  all  the  pleas- 
ures of  his  life  had  amounted  to  the  ineffable  joy  of  this  em- 
brace, in  which  he  continued  for  some  minutes  totally  entranced. 
He  fastened  upon  her  pouting  lips  with  all  the  eagerness  of 
rapture;  and  while  his  brain  seemed  to  whirl  round  with  trans- 
port, exclaimed  in  a  delirium  of  bliss,  ^*  Heaven  and  earth !  this 
is  too  much  to  bear.** 

His  imagination  was  accordingly  relieved,  and  his  attention  in 
some  measure  divided,  by  the  interposition  of  Sophy,  who  kindly 
chid  him  for  his  having  overlooked  his  old  friends:  ft  us  accosted, 
he  quitted  his  delicious  armful,  and  saluting  Mrs.  Ga  nutlet,  asked 
pardon  for  his  neglect;  observing  that  such  rudeness  was  excusa- 
ble, considering  the  long  and  unhappy  exile  which  he  had  suf- 
fered from  the  jewel  of  his  soul.  Then  turning  to  Emilia, —  "I 
am  come,  madam,**  said  he,  "to  claim  the  performance  of  your 
promise,  which  I  can  produce  under  your  own  fair  hand:  you 
may  therefore  lay  aside  all  superfluous  ceremony  and  shyness, 
and  crown  my  happiness  without  farther  delay;  for  upon  my 
soul !  my  thoughts  are  wound  up  to  the  last  pitch  of  expectation, 
and  I  shall  certainly  run  distracted  if  I  am  doom.ed  to  any  term 
of  probation.** 

His  mistress,  having  by  this  time  recollected  herself,  replied 
with  a  most  exhilarating  smile,  "  I  ought  to  pimish  you  for  your 
obstinacy  with  the  mortification  of  a  twelvemonth's  trial;  but  it 
is  dangerous  to  tamper  with  an  admirer  of  your  disposition, 
and  therefore  I  think  I  must  make  sure  of  you  while  it  is  in  my 
power.  ** 

"  You  are  willing  then  to  take  me  for  better  for  worse,  in 
presence  of  Heaven  and  these  witnesses  ?  **  cried  Peregrine  kneel- 
ing, and  applying  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

At  this  interrogation,  her  features  softened  into  an  amazing 
expression  of  condescending  love;  and  while  she  darted  a  side 
glance  that  thrilled  to  his  marrow,  and  heaved  a  sigh  more  soft 
than  Zephyr's  balmy  wing,  her  answer  was,  "Why  —  ay  —  and 
Heaven  grant  me  patience  to  bear  the  humors  of  such  a  yoke- 
fellow.** 

"And  may  the  same  powers,**  replied  the  youth,  "grant  me 
life  and  opportunity  to  manifest  the  immensity  of  my  love. 
Meanwhile  I  have  eightv  thousand  pounds,  which  shall  be  laid 
in  your  lap.** 


I 


TOBIAS  GEORGE   SMOLLETT  I3S9^ 

So  saying-,  he  sealed  the  contract  upon  her  hps,  and  explained 
the  mystery  of  his  last  words,  which  had  begun  to  operate  upon 
the  wonder-  of  the  two  sisters.  Sophy  was  agreeably  surprised 
with  the  account  of  his  good  fortune:  nor  was  it,  in  all  prob- 
ability, unacceptable  to  the  lovely  Emilia;  though  from  this 
information  she  took  an  opportunity  to  upbraid  her  admirer  with 
the  inflexibility  of  his  pride,  which,  she  scrupled  not  to  say,  would 
have  baffled  all  the  suggestions  of  passion  had  it  not  been  grati- 
fied by  this  providential  event. 

Matters  being  thus  happily  matured,-  the  lover  begged  that 
immediate  recourse  might  be  had  to  the  church,  and  his  happi- 
ness ascertained.  He  fell  at  her  feet  in  all  the  agony  of  impa- 
tience; swore  that  his  life  and  intellects  would  actually  be  in 
jeopardy  by  her  refusal:  and  when  she  attempted  to  argue  him 
out  of  his  demand,  ■  began  to  rave  with  such  extravagance  that 
Sophy  was  frightened  into  conviction;  and  Godfrey  enforcing 
tlie  remonstrances  of  his  friend,  the  amiable  Emilia  was  teased 
into  compliance. 

He  accordingly  led  her  into  the  dining-room,  where  the  cere- 
mony was  performed  without  delay;  and  after  the  husband  had 
asserted  his  prerogative  on  her  lips,  the  whole  company  saluted 
her  by  the  name  of  Mrs.  Pickle. 

An  express  was  immediately  dispatched  to  Mrs.  Gauntlet  with 
an  account  of  her  daughter's  marriage;  a  town-house  was  hired, 
and  a  handsome  equipage  set  up,  in  which  the  new-married 
pair  appeared  at  all  public  places,  to  the  astonishment  of  our 
adventurer's  fair-weather  friends  and  the  admiration  of  all  the 
world:  for  in  point  of  figure  such  another  couple  was  not  to 
be  found  in  the  whole  United  Kingdom.  Envy  despaired,  and 
detraction  was  struck  dumb,  when  our  hero's  new  accession  of 
fortune  was  consigned  to  the  celebration  of  publio  fame;  Emilia 
attracted  the  notice  of  all  observers,  from  the  pert  Templar  to 
the  Sovereign  liiinsclf,  who  was  pleased  to  bestow  encomiums 
upon  the  excellence  of  her  beauty.  Many  persons  of  conse- 
quence, who  had  dropped  the  acquaintance  of  Peregrine  in  the 
beginning  of  his  decline,  now  made  open  efforts  to  cultivate  his 
friendship  anew:  but  he  discouraged  all  these  advances  with  the 
most  mortifying  disdain ;  and  one  day  when  the  nobleman  wliom 
he  had  formerly  obliged  came  up  to  him  in  the  drawing-room, 
with  the  salutation  of  "Your  servant,  Mr.  Pickle,"  he  eyed 
him    with   a  look  of    ineffable   contempt,  saying,  "  I    suppose  youi 


I2rp4  TOBIAS  GEORGE   SMOLLETT 

Lordship    is   mistaken    in    3^our   man,*    and    turned   his   head    an- 
other way  in  presence  of  the  whole  court. 

When  he  had  made  a  circuit  round  all  the  places,  frequented 
by  the  beau  mondc,  to  the  utter  confusion  of  those  against  whom 
his  resentment  was  kindled,  paid  off  his  debts,  and  settled  his 
money  matters  in  town.  Hatchway  was  dismissed  to  the  country, 
in  order  to  prepare  for  the  reception  of  his  fair  Emilia.  In  a 
few  days  after  his  departure,  the  whole  company  (Cadwallader 
himself  included)  set  out  for  his  father's  house;  and  in  their  way 
took  up  Mrs.  Gauntlet,  the  mother,  who  was  sincerely  rejoiced  to 
see  our  hero  in  the  capacity  of  her  son-in-law. 


HUMPHREY   CLINKER   IS   PRESENTED   TO   THE   READER 

From  a  letter  to  Sir  Watkin  Phillips,  Bart.,  in  <The  Expedition  of 

Humphrey  Clinker* 

DEAR  Sir,  —  Without  waiting  for  your  answer  to  my  last,  I 
proceed  to  give  you  an  account  of  our  journey  to  London, 
which  has  not  been  wholly  barren  of  adventure.  Tuesday 
last,  the  squire  took  his  place  in  a  hired  coach-and-four,  accom- 
panied by  his  sister  and  mine,  and  Mrs.  Tabby's  maid,  Winifred 
Jenkins,  whose  province  it  was  to  support  Chowder  on  a  cushion 
in  her  lap.  I  could  scarce  refrain  from  laughing  when  I  looked 
into  the  vehicle,  and  saw  that  animal  sitting  opposite  to  my 
uncle,  like  any  other  passenger.  The  squire,  ashamed  of  his 
situation,  blushed  to  the  eyes;  and  calling  to  the  postilions  to 
drive  on,  pulled  the  glass  up  in  my  face.  I,  and  his  servant 
John  Thomas,  attended  them  on  horseback. 

Nothing  worth  mentioning  occurred,  till  we  arrived  on  the 
edge  of  Marlborough  downs.  There  one  of  the  fore-horses  fell, 
in  going  down-hill  at  a  round  trot;  and  the  postilion  behind, 
endeavoring  to  stop  the  carriage,  pulled  it  on  one  side  into  a 
deep  rut,  where  it  was  fairly  overturned.  I  had  rode  on  about 
two  hundred  yards  before;  but  hearing  a  loud  scream,  galloped 
back  and  dismounted,  to  give  what  assistance  was  in  my  power. 
When  I  looked  into  the  coach,  I  could  see  nothing  distinctly  but 
the  Jenkins,  who  was  kicking  her  heels  and  squalling  with  great 
vociferation.  All  of  a  sudden,  my  uncle  thrust  up  his  bare  pate, 
and  bolted  through  the  window  as  nimble  as  a  grasshopper:  the 
man   (who   had   likewise    quitted   his   horse)    dragged   this   forlorn 


TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT  n-n- 

damsel,  more  dead  than  alive,  through  the  same  opening.  Then 
Mr.  Bramble,  pulling  the  door  off  its  hinges  with  a  jerk,  laid 
hold  on  Liddy's  arm,  and  brought  her  to  the  light,  very  much 
frightened  but  little  hurt.  It  fell  to  my  share  to  deliver  our 
Aunt  Tabitha,  who  had  lost  her  cap  in  the  struggle;  and  being 
rather  more  than  half  frantic  with  rage  and  terror,  was  no  bad 
representation  of  one  of  the  sister  Furies  that  guard  the  gates  of 
hell.  She  expressed  no  sort  of  concern  for  her  brother,  who  ran 
about  in  the  cold  without  his  periwig,  and  worked  with  the  most 
astonishing  agility  in  helping  to  disentangle  the  horses  from 
the  carriage;  but  she  cried  in  a  tone  of  distraction, —  "Chowder! 
Chowder!  my  dear  Chow^der!  my  poor  Chowder  is  certainly 
killed !  » 

This  w^as  not  the  case.  Chowder,  after  having  tore  my  uncle's 
leg  in  the  confusion  of  the  fall,  had  retreated  imder  the  seat, 
and  from  thence  the  footman  drew  him  by  the  neck;  for  which 
good  office  he  bit  his  fingers  to  the  bone.  The  fellow,  who  is 
naturally  surly,  was  so  provoked  at  this  assault  that  he  saluted 
his  ribs  with  a  hearty  kick, —  a  benediction  which  was  by  no 
means  lost  upon  the  implacable  virago,  his  mistress.  Her  brother, 
however,  prevailed  upon  her  to  retire  into  a  peasant's  house, 
near  the  scene  of  action,  where  his  head  and  hers  were  covered; 
and  poor  Jenkins  had  a  fit.  Our  next  care  was  to  apply  some 
sticking-plaster  to  the  wound  in  his  leg,  which  exhibited  the  im- 
pression of  Chowder's  teeth;  but  he  never  opened  his  lips  against 
the  delinquent.  Mrs.  Tabby,  alarmed  at  this  scene, —  "You  say 
nothing.  Matt,"  cried  she;  "but  I  know  your  mind  —  I  know 
the  spite  you  have  to  that  poor  unfortunate  animal!  I  know  you 
intend  to  take  his  life  away!**  "You  are  mistaken,  upon  my 
honor !  **  replied  the  squire  with  a  sarcastic  smile :  "  I  should  be 
incapable  of  harboring  any  such  cruel  design  against  an  object 
so  amiable  and  inoffensive,  even  if  he  had  not  the  happiness  to 
be  your  favorite." 

John  Thomas  was  not  so  delicate.  The  fellow,  whether  really 
alarmed  for  his  Hfe,  or  instigated  by  the  desire  for  revenge,  came 
in  and  bluntly  demanded  that  the  dog  should  be  put  to  death, 
on  the  supposition  that  if  ever  he  should  run  mad  hereafter,  he 
who  had  been  bit  by  him  would  be  infected.  My  uncle  calmly 
argued  upon  the  absurdity  of  his  opinion;  obsei-ving  that  he  him- 
self was  in  the  same  predicament,  and  would  certainly  take  the 
precaution  he    proposed  if  he  was  not  sure  that  he  ran  no  risk 


13596 


TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT 


of  infection.  Nevertheless  Thomas  continued  obstinate;  and  at 
length  declared  that  if  the  dog  was  not  shot  immediately,  he 
himself  would  be  his  executioner.  This  declaration  opened  the 
flood-gates  of  Tabby's  eloquence,  which  would  have  shamed  the 
first-rate  oratress  of  Billingsgate.  The  footman  retorted  in  the 
same  style;  and  the  squire  dismissed  him  from  his  service,  after 
having  prevented  me  from  giving  him  a  good  horsewhipping  to5 
his  insolence. 

The  coach  being  adjusted,  another  difficulty  occurred.  Mrs. 
Tabitha  absolutely  refused  to  enter  it  again  unless  another  driver 
could  be  found  to  take  the  place  of  the  postilion,  who,  she  af- 
firmed, had  overturned  the  coach  from  malice  aforethought.  After 
much  dispute,  the  man  resigned  his  place  to  a  shabby  country- 
fellow,  who  undertook  to  go  as  far  as  Marlborough,  where  they 
could  be  better  provided;  and  at  that  place  we  arrived  about 
one  o'clock,  without  further  impediment.  Mrs.  Bramble,  however, 
found  new  matter  of  offense,  which  indeed  she  had  a  particular 
genius  for  extracting  at  will  from  almost  every  incident  in  life. 
We  had  scarce  entered  the  room  at  Marlborough,  where  we  stayed 
to  dine,  when  she  exhibited  a  formal  complaint  against  the  poor 
fellow  who  had  superseded  the  postilion.  She  said  he  was  such 
a  beggarly  rascal  that  he  had  ne'er  a  shirt  to  his  back;  Mrs. 
Winifred  Jenkins  confirmed  the  assertion. 

^*  This  is  a  heinous  offense  indeed, ^^  cried  my  uncle;  **  let  us 
hear  what  the  fellow  has  to  say  in  his  own  vindication.^*  He 
was  accordingly  summoned,  and  made  his  appearance,  which  was 
equally  queer  and  pathetic.  He  seemed  to  be  about  twenty 
years  of  age,  of  a  middling  size,  with  bandy  legs,  stooping 
shoulders,  high  forehead,  sandy  locks,  pinking  eyes,  flat  nose, 
and  long  chin;  his  complexion  was  of  a  sickly  yellow:  his  looks 
denoted  famine;  and  .  .  .  Mrs.  Bramble,  turning  from  him, 
said  she  had  never  seen  such  a  filthy  tatterdemalion,  and  bid 
him  begone;  observing  that  he  would  fill  the  room  with  ver- 
min. 

Her  brother  darted  a  significant  glance  at  her  as  she  retired 
with  Liddy  into  another  apartment;  and  then  asked  the  man  if 
he  was  known  to  any  person  in  Marlborough  ?  When  he  an- 
swered that  the  landlord  of  the  inn  had  known  him  from  his  in 
fancy,  mine  host  was  immediately  called,  and  being  interrogated 
on  the  subject,  said  that  the  young  fellow's  name  was  Humphrey 
Clinker;   that  he  had  been  a  love-begotten  babe,  broiight  up  in 


TOBIAS  GEORGE  SMOLLETT  i-^-nn 

the  workhouse,  and  put  out  apprentice  by  the  parish  to  a  coun- 
try blacksmith,  who  died  before  the  boy's  time  was  out;  that  he 
had  for  some  time  worked  under  his  hostler  as  a  helper  and 
extra  postilion,  till  he  was  taken  ill  of  the  ague,  which  disabled 
him  from  getting  his  bread;  that  having  sold  or  pawned  every- 
thing he  had  in  the  world  for  his  cure  and  subsistence,  he  be- 
came so  miserable  and  shabby  that  he  disgraced  the  stable,  and 
was  dismissed;  but  that  he  never  heard  anything  to  the  prejudice 
of  his  character  in  other  respects.  "  So  that  the  fellow  being 
sick  and  destitute,"  said  my  uncle,  ^^  you  turned  him  out  to  die 
in  the  streets?*^  "I  pay  the  poor's  rate,"  replied  the  other, 
"  and  I  have  no  right  to  maintain  idle  vagrants,  either  in  sick- 
ness or  health ;  besides,  such  a  miserable  object  would  have 
brought  a  discredit  upon  my  house." 

^*  You  perceive,"  said  the  squire,  turning  to  me,  "our  land- 
lord is  a  Christian  of  bowels:  who  shall  presume  to  censure  the 
morals  of  the  age  when  the  very  publicans  exhibit  such  exam- 
ples of  humanity?  Hark  ye.  Clinker,  you  are  a  most  notorious 
offender, —  you  stand  convicted  of  sickness,  hunger,  wretchedness, 
and  want;  but  as  it  does  not  belong  to  me  to  punish  criminals, 
I  will  only  take  upon  me  the  task  of  giving  a  word  of  advice, — 
get  a  shirt  with  all  convenient  dispatch." 

So  saying,  he  put  a  guinea  into  the  hand  of  the  poor  fellow, 
who  stood  staring  at  him  in  silence  with  his  mouth  wide  open, 
till  the  landlord  pushed  him  out  of  the  room. 

In  the  afternoon,  as  our  aunt  stept  into  the  coach,  she  ob- 
served with  some  marks  of  satisfaction  that  the  postilion  who 
rode  next  to  her  was  not  a  shabby  wretch  like  the  ragamufifin 
who  had  drove  them  into  Marlborough.  Indeed,  the  difference 
was  very  conspicuous:  this  was  a  smart  fellow,  with  a  narrow- 
brimmed  hat  with  gold  cording,  a  cut  bob,  a  decent  blue  jacket, 
leather  breeches,  and  a  clean  linen  shirt  puffed  above  the  waist- 
band. When  we  arrived  at  the  castle  on  Spinhill,  where  we  lay, 
this  new  postilion  was  remarkably  assiduous  in  bringing  in  loose 
parcels;  and  at  length  displayed  the  individual  countenance  of 
Humphrey  Clinker,  who  had  metamorphosed  himself  in  this 
manner,  by  relieving  from  pawn  part  of  his  own  clothes  with 
the  money  he  had  received  from   Mr.  Bramble. 

Howsoever  pleased  the  rest  of  the  company  were  with  such 
a  favorable  change  in  the  appearance  of  this  poor  creature,  it 
soured  on  the  stomach  of  Mrs.  Tabby,  who  had  not  yet  digested 


I^cpS  TOBIAS  GEORGE   SMOLLETT 

i 

the  affront.  She  tossed  her  nose  in  disdain,  saying  she  supposed 
her  brother  had  taken  him  into  favor  because  he  had  insulted 
her  with  his  obscenity;  that  a  fool  and  his  money  were  soon 
parted:  but  that  if  Matt  intended  to  take  the  fellow  with  him  to 
London,  she  would  not  go  a  foot  farther  that  way.  My  uncle 
said  nothing  with  his  tongue,  though  his  looks  were  sufficiently 
expressive:  and  next  morning  Clinker  did  not  appear,  so  that  we 
proceeded  without  farther  altercation  to  Salthill,  where  we  pro- 
posed to  dine.  There  the  first  person  that  came  to  the  side  of 
the  coach  and  began  to  adjust  the  footboard  was  no  other  than 
Humphrey  Clinker.  When  I  handed  out  Mrs.  Bramble,  she  eyed 
him  with  a  furious  look,  and  passed  into  the  house;  my  uncle 
was  embarrassed,  and  asked  peevishl}'-  what  had  brought  him 
hither  ?  The  fellow  said  his  Honor  had  been  so  good  to  him, 
that  he  had  not  the  heart  to  part  with  him;  that  he  would  follow 
him  to  the  world's  end,  and  serve  him  all  the  days  of  his  life, 
without  fee  or  reward. 

Mr.  Bramble  did  not  know  whether  to  chide  or  to  laugh  at 
this  declaration.  He  foresaw  much  contradiction  on  the  side  of 
Tabby;  and  on  the  other  hand,  he  could  not  but  be  pleased 
with  the  gratitude  of  Clinker,  as  well  as  with  the  simplicity  of  his 
character.  "Suppose  I  was  inclined  to  take  you  into  my  service," 
said  he,  "  what  are  your  qualifications  ?  What  are  you  good  for  ?  *^ 
"An'  please  your  Honor,"  answered  this  original,  "I  can  read  and 
write,  and  do  the  business  of  the  stable  indifferent  well.  I  can 
dress  a  horse,  and  shoe  him,  and  bleed  and  rowel  him;  .  .  . 
I  won't  turn  my  back  on  e'er  a  he  in  the  county  of  Wilts. 
Then  I  can  make  hog's  puddings  and  hobnails,  mend  kettles  and 
tin  saucepans  — "  Here  uncle  burst  out  a-laughing;  and  inquired 
what  other  accomplishments  he  was  master  of.  "  I  know  some- 
thing of  single-stick  and  psalmody,"  proceeded  Clinker:  "  I  can 
play  upon  the  jew's-harp,  sing  ^Black-eyed  Susan,*  < Arthur 
O'Bradley,*  and  divers  other  songs;  I  can  dance  a  Welsh  jig, 
and  *  Nancy  Dawson*;  wrestle  a  fall  with  any  lad  of  my  inches 
when  I'm  in  heart;  and  (under  correction)  I  can  find  a  hare 
when  your  Honor  wants  a  bit  of  game."  "  Foregad,  thou  art  a 
complete  fellow!"  cried  my  uncle,  still  laughing:  "I  have  a  mind 
to  take  thee  into  my  family.  Prithee,  go  and  try  if  thou  canst 
make  peace  with  my  sister;    thou  hast  given  her  much   offense." 

Clinker  accordingly  followed  us  into  the  room,  cap  in  hand, 
where,    addressing    himself    to    Mrs.    Tabitha, — "  May    it    please 


TOBIAS  GEORGE   SMOLLETT  13599 

your  Ladyship's  Worship,'*  cried  he,  ^^to  pardon  and  forgive  my 
offenses,  and  with  God's  assistance,  I  shall  take  care  never  to 
offend  your  Ladyship  again.  Do,  pray,  good,  sweet,  beautiful 
lady,  take  compassion  on  a  poor  sinner;  God  bless  your  noble 
countenance,  I  am  sure  you  are  too  handsome  and  generous  to 
bear  malice.  I  will  serve  you  on  my  bended  knees,  by  night 
and  by  day,  by  land  and  by  water;  and  all  for  the  love  and 
pleasure  of  serving  such   an  excellent  lady.** 

This  compliment  and  humiliation  had  some  effect  upon  Tab- 
itha;  but  she  made  no  reply;  and  Clinker,  taking  silence  for 
consent,  gave  his  attendance  at  dinner.  The  fellow's  natural 
awkwardness,  and  the  flutter  of  his  spirits,  were  productive  of 
repeated  blunders  in  the  course  of  his  attendance.  At  length  he 
spilt  part  of  a  custard  upon  her  right  shoulder;  and  starting  back, 
trod  upon  Chowder,  who  set  up  a  dismal  howl.  Pcor  Humphrey 
was  so  disconcerted  at  this  double  mistake,  that  he  dropt  the 
china  dish,  which  broke  into  a  thousand  pieces;  then  falling 
down  upon  his  knees,  remained  in  that  posture,  gaping  with  a 
most  ludicrous  aspect  of  distress.  Mrs.  Bramble  flew  to  the  dog, 
and  snatching  him  in  her  arms,  presented  him  to  her  brother, 
saying,  "  This  is  all  a  concerted  scheme  against  this  unfortunate 
animal,  whose  only  crime  is  its  regard  for  me; — here  it  is:  kill 
it  at  once;    and  then  you'll  be  satisfied.** 

Clinker,  hearing  these  words  and  taking  them  in  the  literal 
acceptation,  got  up  in  some  hurry,  and  seizing  a  knife  from  the 
sideboard,  cried,  ^*  Not  here,  an't  please  your  Ladyship,  —  it  will 
daub  the  room:  give  him  to  me,  and  I'll  carry  him  into  the 
ditch  by  the  roadside.**  To  this  proposal  he  received  no  other 
answer  than  a  hearty  box  on  the  ear,  that  made  him  stagger  to 
the  other  side  of  the  room.  "  What !  **  said  she  to  her  brother, 
"  am  I  to  be  affronted  by  every  mangy  hound  that  you  pick  up 
in  the  highway  ?  I  insist  upon  your  sending  this  rascallion  about 
his  business  immediately.'*  ^*  For  God's  sake,  sister,  compose 
yourself,**  said  my  uncle;  <*  and  consider  that  the  poor  fellow  is 
innocent  of  any  intention  to  give  you  offense.*'  "Innocent  as  the 
babe  unborn,*'  cried  Humphrey.  "  I  sec  it  plainly,**  exclaimed 
this  implacable  maiden :  "  lie  acts  by  your  direction,  and  you  are 
resolved  to  support  him  in  his  impudence.  This  is  a  bad  return 
for  all  the  services  I  have  done  you, —  for  nursing  you  in  your 
sickness,  managing  your  family,  and  keeping  you  from  ruining 
yourself  by  your  own  imprudence     but  now  you  shall   part  with 


13600 


TOBIAS   GEORGE   SMOLLETT 


that  rascal  or  me,  upon  the  spot,  without  farther  loss  of  time; 
and  the  world  shall  see  whether  you  have  more  regard  for  your 
own  flesh  and  blood,  or  for  a  beggarly  foundling  taken  from  a 
dunghill." 

Mr.  Bramble's  eyes  began  to  glisten,  and  his  teeth  to  chatter. 
**  If  stated  fairly,**  said  he,  raising  his"  voice,  "the  question  is 
whether  I  have  spirit  to  shake  off  an  intolerable  yoke  by  one 
efl^ort  of  resolution,  or  meanness  enough  to  do  an  act  of  cruelty 
and  injustice  to  gratify  the  rancor  of  a  capricious  woman.  Hark 
ye,  Mrs.  Tabitha  Bramble!  I  will  now  propose  an  alternative 
in  my  turn:  either  discard  your  four-footed  favorite,  or  give 
me  leave  to  bid  you  eternally  adieu;  for  I  am  determined  that 
he  and  I  shall  live  no  longer  under  the  same  roof;  and  now  to 
dinner  luith  zvhat  appetite  you  inay."'^  Thunderstruck  at  this  dec- 
laration, she  sat  down  in  a  corner;  and  after  a  pause  of  some 
minutes,  "Sure  I  don't  understand  you,  Matt!**  said  she.  "And. 
yet  I  spoke  in  plain  English,**  answered  the  squire  with  a  per- 
emptory look.  "Sir,**  resumed  this  virago,  effectually  humbled, 
"  it  is  your  prerogative  to  command,  and  my  duty  to  obey.  I 
can't  dispose  of  the  dog  in  this  place;  but  if  you'll  allow  him  to 
go  in  the  coach  to  London,  I  give  you  my  word  he  shall  never 
trouble  you  again.** 

Her  brother,  entirely  disarmed  by  this  mild  reply,  declared 
she  could  ask  him  nothing  in  reason  that  he  would  refuse; 
adding,  "  I  hope,  sister,  you  have  never  found  me  deficient  in 
natural  affection !  '*  Mrs.  Tabitha  immediately  rose,  and  throwing 
her  arms  about  his  neck,  kissed  him  on  the  cheek;  he  returned 
her  embrace  with  great  emotion.  Liddy  sobbed;  Win  Jenkins 
cackled;  Chowder  capered;  and  Clinker  skipt  about,  rubbing  his 
hands  for  joy  of  this  reconciliation. 

Concord  being  thus  restored,  we  finished  our  meal  with  com- 
fort; and  in  the  evening  arrived  in  London,  without  having  met 
with  any  other  adventure.  My  aunt  seems  to  be  much  mended 
by  the  hint  she  received  from  her  brother.  She  has  been  gra- 
ciously pleased  to  remove  her  displeasure  from  Clinker,  who  is 
now  retained  as  a  footman,  and  (in  a  day  or  two)  will  make  his 
appearance  in  a  new  suit  of  livery;  but  as  he  is  little  acquainted 
with  London,  we  have  taken  an  occasional  valet,  whom  I  intend 
hereafter  to  hire  as  my  own  servant.  J.  Melford, 


11 


k 


I360I 


DENTON  J.  SNIDER 

(1841-) 

[ppRECiATioN  of  the  Greek  spirit  by  the  modern  generation 
may  find  expression  in  scrupulous  scholarship,  comprehend- 
ing the  literature  of  Greece  in  its  philological  aspect;  or  it 
may  manifest  itself  as  the  very  poetry  of  criticism  —  as  a  temper  of 
rnind  which  can  reconstruct  the  old  Greek  world  out  of  a  line  from 
Homer,  or  from  a  fragment  of  a  temple.  Mr.  Denton  J.  Snider  pos- 
sesses to  a  high  degree  this  imaginative  appreciation  of  the  golden 
world  of  Greece.  His  scholarship  is  subordinated  to  his  fine  sym- 
pathy with  the  never-dying  soul  of  a  great 
age. 

In  his  <Walk  in  Hellas,^  he  describes  a 
pedestrian  tour  through  Greece,  which  he 
made  alone.  The  journey  was  as  much  of 
the  mind  as  of  the  body.  It  was  not  under- 
taken merely  to  see  portions  of  the  penin- 
sula rarely  visited  by  strangers.  Its  chief 
object  was  to  recover  the  ancient  classic 
time,  partly  by  power  of  the  imagination, 
partly  by  the  aid  of  haunted  spring  and 
grove  and  ruin.  It  was  to  see  Aristotle 
walking  with  his  disciples  on  the  slopes 
of  Lycabettus;  to  see  the  Plataeans  filing 
through   the   brushwood   of   Mount  Kotroni, 

to  aid  the  Athenians  on  the  plain  of  Marathon;  to  see  the  statues 
of  Phidias  emerge  from  the  ancient  quarries  of  Pentelic  marble, — 
white,  godlike  forms  of  eternal  youth;  to  see  the  sapphire  skies 
beyond  spotless  temples  to  Diana;  to  remember  Theocritus  in  the 
scent  of  the  thyme;  above  all,  to  seek  for  Helen,  the  incarnation  of 
the  divine  Greek  beauty.  "  He  is  in  pursuit  of  Helen ;  her  above 
all  human  and  divine  personalities  he  desires  to  behold,  even  speak 
with  face  to  face,  and  possibly  to  possess.  But  who  is  Helen  ?  You 
are  aware  that  on  her  account  the  Trojan  War  was  fought;  that  all 
Greece,  when  she  was  stolen,  mustered  a  vast  armament,  and  hero- 
ically struggled  ten  years  for  her  recovery;  and  did  recover  her  and 
bring  her  back  to  her  native  land.  Nor  is  the  legend  wanting  that 
there  in  her  Grecian  home  she  is  still  just  the  blooming  bride   who 


Denton  J.   Snider 


13602  DENTON  J.  SNIDER 

was  once  led  away  by  the  youthful  Menelaos  to  the  shining  palace  oi 
Sparta.  So  the  wanderer  is  going  to  have  his  Iliad  too  —  an  Iliad  not 
fought  and  sung,  but  walked  and  perchance  dreamed,  for  the  posses- 
sion of  Helen,  the  most  beautiful  woman  of  Greece ;  nay,  the  most 
beautiful  woman  of  the  world.  There  she  stands  in  the  soft  moon- 
light of  fable,  statue-like,  just  before  the  entrance  to  the  temple  of 
history.  Thither  the  cloudy  image,  rapidly  growing  more  distinct 
and  more  persistent,  beckons  and  points." 

It  is  this  dream  of  Helen  the  beautiful  that  Mr.  Snider  has  in 
mind  continually,  on  his  pilgrimage  through  the  enchanted  country 
of  which  she  is  the  personification.  She  is  always  in  the  purple  dis- 
tance, beckoning  to  him  from  the  porch  of  a  temple,  from  the  green 
slope  of  some  sacred  mountain,  from  the  azure  of  the  sky,  from  the 
depths  of  some  wild  sea  splendor.  He  follows  this  vision  from  Ath- 
ens to  Pentelicus,  from  Marathon  to  Marcopoulo,  from  Aulis  to  Thebes, 
from  Chaeroneia  to  Parnassus.  His  idealism  reconstructs  the  world 
of  Helen  and  her  descendants;  but  his  keen  powers  of  observation 
take  account  also  of  the  modern  Greece  through  which  he  is  passing. 
The  charm  of  <A  Walk  in  Hellas  >  lies  in  this  poetical  union  of  the 
Greece  of  Helen  with  the  Greece  of  King  George.  Mr.  Snider's  jour- 
ney through  Greece  was  undertaken  in  1877,  when  he  was  young 
enough  to  enjoy  even  its  hardships.  He  was  born  January  9th,  1841, 
at  Mount  Gilead,  Ohio.  In  1862  he  graduated  at  Oberlin  College,  and 
in  1867  became  instructor  in  the  St.  Louis  High  School.  Since  1887 
he  has  been  co-worker  in  the  literary  schools  of  Chicago,  and  in  the 
kindergarten ;  also  a  peripatetic  lecturer.  He  has  published  comment- 
aries on  what  he  terms  <*the  literary  Bibles,"  —  Shakespeare's  dramas, 
Goethe's  ^  Faust, ^  Homer's  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  and  Dante's  *  Divine 
Comedy.'  These  are  concerned  chiefly  with  the  ethical  and  spirit- 
ual import  of  the  masterpieces,  and  less  with  the  usual  subject  of 
criticism,  literary  form.  Mr.  Snider  recognizes  what  many  critics 
overlook,  that  the  greatest  artist  is  the  greatest  moralist.  In  his 
commentary  on  Shakespeare  he  writes :  ^*  The  all-pervading  great- 
ness of  Shakespeare  lies  in  his  comprehension  of  the  ethical  order  of 
the  world ; "  his  dramas  are  *^  the  truest  literary  product  of  the  time, 
because  the  most  perfect  and  concrete  presentation  of  realized  ration- 
ality." It  is  this  recognition  of  a  supreme  truth  which  fits  Mr.  Sni- 
der to  be  an  interpreter  of  Macbeth  and  Lear,  of  the  Faust  Legend 
and  Dante's  Vision.  In  his  commentary  on  Goethe's  *  Faust,*  there 
is  much  subtle  criticism.  "  Margaret  has  not  intellect,  at  least  not 
intellect  unfolded  into  conscious  reason :  she  has  the  rational  prin- 
ciple within  her,  but  in  the  form  of  feeling.  She  is  not,  therefore,  the 
self-centred  woman,  the  one  who  is  able  to  meet  Faust,  the  intel- 
lectual destroyer  of  her  world.      Such  is  the  word  of  the  great  poet 


DENTON    J.  SNIDER  1360-? 

of  the  century  on  woman.     The  great  philosopher  of  the  century  has 
said  about  the  same  thing:  — 

«<Man  is  the  active,  objective  principle,  woman  is  the  passive,  subjective; 
man  is  thought,  woman  is  feeling;  man  clings  to  the  Universal,  woman  to  the 
Individual, —  she  can  possess  fancy,  wit,  culture,  but  not  philosophy.  If  this 
be  the  finality  of  her,  then  she  is  and  must  remain  a  tragic  character;  or  if 
she  be  saved,  her  salvation  depends  on  her  not  meeting  a  Faust.  Such  prob- 
ably has  been  her  lot  in  the  past:  but  the  new  woman  assuredly  must  take 
possession  of  her  intellectual  birthright,  and  therein  be  all  the  more  a  woman ; 
I  say  she  will  be  able  to  meet  a  Faust  on  his  own  ground,  and  not  only 
Faust,  but  Mephisto  himself.  We  can  see  such  a  woman  in  training  in  our 
Western  world;  but  Goethe  never  beheld  her,  Hegel  never  beheld  her,  never 
could  behold  her  in  that  European  life.^  >> 

Mr.  Snider  has  been  a  voluminous  writer  in  the  fields  of  philosophy, 
psychology,  and  education.  He  has  also  published  several  volumes  of 
poems  on  classical  subjects.  Among  his  miscellaneous  writings  are 
( World's-Fair  Studies,)  a  novel  of  Western  life;  (The  Freebargers) ; 
(The  State)  (1902);  (Architecture)  (1905),  and  (A  Tour  in  Europe) 
(1907). 


THE    BATTLE   OF   MARATHON 
From  <A  Walk  in  Hellas.>     Copyright  1881  and  1882,  by  Denton  J.  Snider 

BUT  as  I  turn  around  a  little  thicket  and  emerge  on  the  other 
side,  behold!  The  whole  valley,  green  with  alternate  patches 
of  shrubs  and  grain-fields,  gracefully  narrow  and  curving, 
stretches  out  before  me.  Through  it  a  silvery  ribbon  of  water  is 
winding  brightly  along:  it  is  the  river  Marathon.  Toward  the 
further  end  of  the  vale  is  a  pleasant  village  lying  quietly  between 
the  hills  in  sunny  repose:  it  is  the  village  Marathon.  In  the  dis- 
tance through  the  opening  between  two  mountains,  following  with 
the  eye  the  course  of  the  stream,  I  can  behold  a  plain  spreading 
out  like  a  fan,  and  stretching  along  the  blue  sparkling  rim  of  the 
sea:  it  is  the  plain  of  Marathon.  The  whole  landscape  sweeps 
into  the  vision  at  once  from  the  high  station;  something  strug- 
gles within  the  beholder,  wings  can  be  felt  growing  out  of  the 
sides:  let  us  fly  down  into  the  vale  without  delay  from  this 
height. 

Just  as  I  was  prepared  to  start  once  more,  a  new  appearance 
I  notice  coming  down  the  road:  it  is  the  traveling  merchant,  with 
his   entire    store   of   goods  laden  on  the  back  of  a  little  donkey. 


1^604  DENTON  J.  SNIDER 

His  salute  is  friendly,  his  manner  is  quick  and  winning;  we  go 
along  together  toward  the  village,  talking  of  many  things.  He 
tells  me  that  he  is  from  Oropus,  a  town  on  the  Attic  border 
famous  in  antiquity;  that  his  name  is  Aristides,  that  he  is  going 
to  Marathon,  and  will  show  me  a  place  to  stay  during  the  night. 
There  is  something  new  and  peculiar  about  this  man,  the  like  of 
which  I  have  not  yet  seen  in  these  rural  portions  of  Greece.  He 
walks  with  a  quick,  alert  step,  he  has  a  shrewdness  and  bright- 
ness of  intellect,  a  readiness  and  information  which  are  remark- 
able in  comparison  to  the  ordinary  intellectual  gifts  found  in  the 
country;  his  features  and  his  physical  bearing,  his  keen  dark  eye 
and  nervous  twitch,  distinguish  him  in  the  most  striking  manner 
from  the  stolid  Albanian  peasant.  He  is  a  Greek  of  pure  blood, 
he  tells  me:  manifestly  we  have  met  with  a  new  and  distinctive 
type. 

I  enter  the  village  of  Marathon  with  Aristides,  who  brings  me 
to  the  chief  wine-shop,  where  lodgings  are  to  be  had  as  well  as 
refreshing  beverage.  First  a  thimbleful  of  mastic,  a  somewhat 
strong  alcoholic  drink,  with  my  merchant,  who  then  leaves  me 
and  goes  to  his  business.  A  number  of  people  are  in  the  wine- 
shop; they  are  the  Albanian  residents  of  the  village:  all  look 
curiously  at  the  new  arrival.  The  merchant  soon  passed  around 
the  word  that  I  was  from  America  —  a  fact  which  I  had  imparted 
to  him  on  the  way.  But  of  America  they  had  very  little  notion. 
The  strangest  sort  of  curiosity  peeped  out  of  their  rather  small 
eyes:  the  news  spread  rapidly  through  the  town  that  a  live 
American  had  arrived;  what  that  was,  they  all  hastened  to  see. 
So  they  continued  to  pour  in  by  twos  and  threes  till  the  spacious 
wine-shop  was  nearly  full.  Not  a  word  they  said,  but  walked 
along  in  front  of  the  table  where  I  sat,  and  stared  at  me;  they 
kept  their  kerchiefed  heads  drawn  down  in  their  shaggy  capotes, 
being  dressed  in  tight  breeches  like  close-fitting  drawers,  with 
feet  thrust  into  low  shoes,  which  run  out  to  a  point  at  the  toes 
and  curl  over.  Thus  they  move  before  me  in  continuous  proces- 
sion; when  they  had  taken  a  close  survey  of  me,  they  would  sit 
down  on  a  bench,  roll  a  cigarette  in  paper,  strike  fire  from  a 
flint,  and  begin  to  smoke.  A  taciturn,  curious,  but  not  unfriendly 
crowd. —  I  called  for  recinato. 

Presently  a  man  clad  in  European  garments  appeared  among 
them,  and  in  courteous  manner  addressed  me,  talking  good  Greek 
but  very  bad  French:  it  was  the  village  schoolmaster,  whom  the 


DENTON    J.  SNIDER  13605 

people  familiarly  called  Didaskali.  I  hailed  him  joyfully  as 
a  fellow-craftsman  in  a  foreign  land,  and  lost  no  time  in  announ- 
cing to  him  that  I  too  was  a  schoolmaster  in  my  country.  Pro- 
fessional sympathy  at  once  opened  all  the  sluices  of  his  heart: 
we  were  friends  on  the  spot.  He  was  not  an  Albanian,  but  a 
Greek  born  in  the  Turkish  provinces;  I  do  not  think  he  was  as 
bright  as  my  merchant  Aristides,  though  he  was  probably  better 
educated.  I  took  a  stroll  with  him  around  the  town;  he  sought 
to  show  me  every  possible  kindness,  with  the  single  exception 
of  his  persistency  in  talking  French.  One  neat  little  cottage  I 
noticed:  it  was  the  residence  of  the  Dikastes  or  village  judge; 
but  the  most  cf  the  houses  were  low  hovels,  with  glassless  win- 
dows, often  floorless.  Women  were  shy,  hiding  forehead  and 
chin  in  wrappage  at  the  approach  of  a  stranger, —  who  perhaps 
was  too  eager  in  trying  to  peer  into  their  faces,  as  if  in  search 
of  some  visage  lost  long  ago  in  this  valley.  Still  human  nature 
is  here,  too,  in  Marathon;  for  I  caught  a  young  girl  giving  a 
sly  peep  through  the  window  after  we  had  passed,  which  she  had 
pretended  to  close  when  she  saw  the  stranger  approaching. 

But  it  is  growing  dark;  I  have  done  a  pretty  good  day's  work; 
I  must  put  off  the  rest  of  the  sight-seeing  till  to-morrow.  Only 
half  a  mile  below  is  the  Marathonian  plain,  which  one  can  see 
from  the  village,  but  it  must  now  be  turned  over  to  darkness. 
At  my  request  the  Didaskali  goes  back  with  me  to  the  wine-shop, 
when  he  excuses  himself,  promising  soon  to  return.  There  I 
had  a  supper  which  was  eminently  satisfactory  after  a  day's  walk: 
five  eggs  fried  in  goat's  butter,  large  quantities  of  black  bread, 
and  abundance  of  recinato  at  one  cent  a  glass, —  good-sized 
glasses  at  that. 

While  I  sat  there  eating,  the  people  began  to  assemble  again. 
The  Papas,  the  village  priest,  came  and  listened, —  the  untrou- 
sered  man,  with  dark  habit  falling  down  to  his  heels  like  a 
woman's  dress,  and  with  long  raven  hair  rolled  \ip  in  a  knot  on 
the  back  of  his  head,  upon  which  knot  sat  his  high,  stiff  ecclesias- 
tical cap;  the  Dikastes  or  village  judge  came, —  an  educated  man, 
who  had  studied  at  the  University  of  Athens,  and  who  dressed  in 
European  fashion,  possessing,  in  noticeable  contrast  to  the  rest  of 
the  Marathonians,  the  latest  style  of  Parisian  hat;  a  lame  shop- 
keeper came,  a  Greek  of  the  town;  bright,  full  of  mockery,  flatter- 
ing me  with  high  titles  —  in  order  to  get  me  to  hire  his  mules 
for   my   journey,  as    I    had    good    reason    to    suspect;    finally   the 


126o6  DENTON  J.  SNIDER 

schoolmaster  and  the  traveling  merchant  appeared  again,  both  in 
excellent  humor,  and  expecting  a  merry  evening.  There  was  no 
doctor  present:  I  asked  for  him;  they  told  me  that  there  was 
none  in  the  valley,  though  it  is  scourged  with  malarial  fever  in 
summer;  one  man  in  particular  complained  of  the  health  of  the 
place.  All  the  representative  citizens  of  Marathon  were  before  me, 
looking  at  me  eating  in  the  wine -shop  on  a  wooden  table.  Some 
one  asked  me  about  my  native  language.  "  This  is  the  language 
that  I  understand  best,*^  said  I,  raising  a  mouthful  of  egg  and 
bread  to  my  lips :  ^^  you  seem  to  understand  it  too.  ^*  This  jest, 
for  whose  merit  I  do  not  make  any  high  claims,  caused  all  the 
Albanians  to  laugh,  and  set  the  whole  wine-shop  in  a  festive 
mood.  It  is  manifest  that  this  audience  is  not  very  difficult  to 
please. 

Finally  my  long  repast  was  finished;  long  both  on  account 
of  the  work  done  and  on  account  of  the  continued  interruptions 
caused  by  question  and  answer.  The  people  still  held  out;  there 
they  were  before  me,  more  curious  than  ever,  now  with  a  laugh- 
ing look  on  account  of  that  one  sterile  jest,  —  laughing  out  of 
the  corner  of  the  eye,  and  with  head  already  somewhat  drawn  out 
of  the  shaggy  capote  from  expectation.  What  next  ?  I  was  on 
the  soil  of  illustrious  Marathon ;  expectant  gazes  were  centred 
upon  me:  what  had  I,  as  a  true'  American,  to  do  for  the  honor 
of  my  country?  My  duty  was  clear  from  the  start:  I  must  make 
a  speech.  I  should  have  been  unfaithful  .to  my  nationality  had 
I  not  done  so  at  Marathon.  Accordingly  I  shoved  the  table  aside, 
pulled  out  my  bench,  and  in  the  full  happiness  of  hunger  and 
thirst  satisfied  —  perhaps,  too,  a  little  aglow  with  the  golden  reci- 
nato  —  I  began  to  address  them  as  follows :  — 

Andres  Marathonioi  —  Ye  men  of  Marathon  — 

At  this  point  I  confess  I  had  to  laugh  myself,  looking  into  that 
solid  Albanian  stare  of  fifty  faces;  for  the  echo  of  the  tremen- 
dous oath  of  Demosthenes,  in  which  he  swears  by  the  heroes  of 
Marathon,  rung  through  my  ears,  and  made  the  situation  appall- 
ingly ludicrous.  Still,  in  spite  of  my  laugh,  you  must  know  that 
I  was  in  deep  earnest  and  full  of  my  theme ;  moreover,  there  were 
at  least  four  persons  before  me  who  could  understand  both  my 
Greek  and  my  allusions.  As  to  my  Greek,  I  affirm  that  Demos- 
thenes  himself   would   have   understood   it   had  he  been  there. — 


DENTON   J.  SNIDER  I -6o7 

though  he  mig-ht  have  criticized  the  style  and  pronunciation.     But 
I  resumed:  — 

Ye  men  of  Marathon,  I  never  was  gladder  in  my  life  than 
I  am  to  be  with  you  "to-night.  I  crossed  over  the  mountains 
on  foot  from  Stamata;  every  step  that  I  took  was  lighter  with 
thinking  of  Marathon.  When  from  yonder  summit  I  first  caught 
a  glimpse  of  your  village  and  valley,  and  gave  a  distant  peep 
into  the  plain  beyond  to  the  sea,  I  had  to  shed  tears  of  joy. 
Your  name  is  indeed  the  greatest,  the  most  inspiring  in  all 
history.  In  every  age  it  has  been  the  mighty  rallying-cry  of 
freedom;  nations  oppressed,  on  hearing  it,  have  taken  hope  and 
risen,  smiting  to  earth  their  tyrants.  It  has  been  the  symbol  of 
courage  to  the  few  and  weak  against  the  many  and  strong;  the 
very  utterance  of  the  name  inspires  what  is  highest  and  noblest 
in  the  human  breast, —  courage,  devotion,  liberty,  nationality. 
Under  a  banner  inscribed  with  that  word  Marathon,  our  Western 
civilization  has  heroically  marched  and  fought  its  battle:  here  was 
its  first  outpost,  here  its  first  and  greatest  triumph, —  and  tlie 
shout  of  that  triumph  still  re-echoes  and  will  go  on  re-echoing 
forever  through  history.  But  Marathon  is  not  merely  here;  it 
has  traveled  around  the  world  along  with  man's  freedom  and 
enlightenment.  Among  all  civilized  peoples  the  name  is  known 
and  cherished ;  it  is  familiar  as  a  household  word, —  nay,  it  is 
a  household  prayer.  In  the  remote  districts  of  America  I  have 
often  heard  it  uttered  —  and  uttered  with  deepest  admiration  and 
gratitude.  There,  in  my  land,  thousands  of  miles  from  here,  I 
first  learned  the  name  of  Marathon  in  a  log  schoolhouse  b)''  the 
side  of  .the  primitive  forest ;  it  fell  from  the  lips  of  a  youth  who 
was  passionately  speaking  of  his  country.  It  had  in  its  very 
soimd,  I  can  still  recollect,  some  spell,  some  strange  fascination, 
for  it  seemed  to  call  up,  like  an  army  of  spirits,  the  great  heroes 
of  the  past  along  with  the  most  intense  feelings  of  the  soul. 
There  you  can  hear  it  among  the  people  in  their  little  debates; 
also  you  can  hear  it  from  great  orators  in  senate  halls.  Mara- 
thon, I  repeat,  is  the  mightiest,  most  magical  name  in  histoiy, 
by  which  whole  nations  swear  when  they  march  oiit  in  defense 
of  their  Gods,  their  families,  and  their  freedom.  By  it  too  they 
compare  their  present  with  their  past,  and  ever  struggle  upwards 
to  fulfill  what  lies  prophetically  in  their  great  example.  Now  I 
am  in  the  very  place:  I  can  liardly  persuade  myself  that  it  is 
not  a  dream,  and  that  you  are  not  shadows  flitting  here  before 


13608  DENTON   J.   SNIDER 

me.  In  that  log  schoolhouse  I  did  not  even  dare  dream  of  this 
moment;  but  it  has  arrived.  I  have  already  had  to-day  a 
glimpse  where  the  old  battle-field  reposes  in  the  hazy  distance; 
to-morrow  I  shall  visit  it,  run  over  it,  spend  the  whole  day  upon 
it,  looking  and  thinking;  for  I  desire  to  stamp  its  features  and 
its  spirit  into  my  very  brain,  that  I  may  carry  Marathon  across 
the  ocean  to  my  land,  and  show  it  to  others  who  may  not  be 
able  to  come  here  and  see  it  for  themselves.  Nor  shall  I  refrain 
from  confessing  to  you  a  secret  within  me:  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  I  have  been  here  before;  everything  looks  familiar  to 
me;  I  beheld  yon  summit  long  ago, —  the  summit  of  old  Kotroni; 
I  have  marched  down  the  Marathonian  stream  as  I  marched 
to-day;  I  seem  to  be  doing  over  again  the  same  things  that  I 
have  done  here  before;  I  made  a  speech  on  this  spot  ages  ago 
in  Greek, —  a  much  better  one,  I  think,  than  I  am  now  making. 
And  further  let  me  tell  you  what  I  believe:  I  believe  that  I 
too  fought  along  at  Marathon,  that  I  was  one  of  those  ten  thou- 
sand  Athenian  soldiers  that  rushed  down  yonder  hillside  and 
drave  the  Oriental  men  into  the  sea.  I  can  now  behold  myself 
off  there  charging  down  a  meadow  toward  a  swamp,  amid  the 
rattle  of  arms  and  the  hymn  of  battle,  with  shield  firmly  grasped 
and  with  spear  fiercely  out-thrust, —  on  the  point  of  which,  spit- 
ted through  and  through,  I  can  feel  a  quivering  Persian. 

At  this  strange  notion,  and  still  more  at  the  accompanying 
gesture  made  in  a  charging  attitude,  the  mirthful  Greeks  coulc| 
hold  in  no  longer,  but  burst  suddenly  into  a  loud  and  prolonged 
laugh,  in  which  the  Albanians  joined;  they  all  laughed,  laughed 
inextinguishably  like  the  blessed  gods  on  Olympus,  and  the  whole 
wine-shop  was  filled  with  wild  merriment.  Whereat  the  speech 
was  brought  to  a  close  which  may  be  modestly  called  a  happy 
one:   thus  let  it  be  now^ 

As  soon  as  the  speech  had  come  to  an  end,  I  rose  and  looked 
out  of  the  wdne-shop;  desiring  to  take  a  short  stroll  before  going 
to  bed,  in  order  to  catch  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  and  to  see  a 
Greek  evening  in  the  Marathonian  vale.  Though  long  after  sun- 
set, it  appeared  light  out  of  doors  everywhere;  that  vague  flicker 
from  the  sky  it  was  which  gives  a  mystical  indefiniteness  to 
the  things  of  nature,  and  produces  such  a  marked  contrast  to  the 
clear  plastic  outlines  of  daytime.  The  schoolmaster  went  along, 
and  we  walked  up  the  stream  of  Marathon,  which  often  gurgled 
into  a  momentary  gleam  over  the  pebbles,  and  then  fell  back  into 


i 


DENTON    J.   SNIDER  13609 

darkness.  The  mountains  on  each  side  of  us  were  changed 
into  curious  fantastic  shapes  which  played  in  that  subtle  light; 
caprice  of  forms  now  ruled  the  beautiful  Greek  world,  as  begot- 
ten in  the  sport  of  a  Northern  fancy;  Hecate  with  her  rout  of 
witches  and  goblins  had  broken  loose  from  her  dark  caverns  in 
the  earth,  and  was  flitting  across  glimmering  patches  of  twilight 
up  and  down  the  hillsides.  Below  the  peaks,  the  dells  and  little 
seams  of  valleys  running  athwart  one  another  were  indicated  by 
lines  of  darkness,  so  that  their  whole  figure  came  to  resemble  a 
many-legged  monster  crawling  down  the  slant;  while  above  on 
the  summits  was  the  dreamy  play  of  light  with  the  dance  of  the 
fairies.  But  these  shapes  let  us  shun  in  Greece:  we  may  allow 
them  to  sport  capriciously  before  us  for  a  few  moments  in  the 
evening,  though  in  truth  they  belong  not  here.  Let  us  then 
hasten  back  to  the  wine-shop  and  await  to-morrow  the  return  of 
Phoebus  Apollo,  the  radiant  Greek  god,  who  will  slay  these 
Pythons  anew  with  his  shining  arrows,  and  put  to  flight  all  the 
weird  throng,  revealing  again  our  world  in  clear  clean-cut  out- 
lines bounded  in  this  soft  sunlight. 

When  we  arrived  there,  we  still  found  the  priest, —  the  long- 
haired, dark-stoled  Papas, —  though  nearly  everybody  else  had 
gone  home.  He  began  to  catechize  me  on  the  subject  of  reli- 
gion, particularly  its  ceremonies;  of  which  examination  I,  know- 
ing my  weakness,  tried  to  keep  shy.  But  he  broke  out  directly 
upon  me  with  this  question :  Were  you  ever  baptized  ?  Therein 
a  new  shortcoming  was  revealed  to  myself,  for  I  had  to  confess 
that  I  actually  did  not  know;  I  did  not  recollect  any  such  event 
myself,  and  I  had  always  forgotten  to  ask  my  father  whether 
the  rite  had  ever  been  performed  over  me  when  an  infant.  The 
priest  thought  that  this  was  bad,  very  bad — kakon,  polk  kakon  was 
his  repeated  word  of  disapprobation;  then  he  asked  me  if  I  never 
intended  to  be  baptized.  This  question,  here  at  Marathon,  drove 
me  to  bed;  I  at  once  called  for  a  light.  But  it  was  only  one 
of  the  frequent  manifestations  that  will  be  observed  in  mod- 
ern Greece,  of  a  tendency  to  discuss  religious  subtleties.  The 
ecclesiastical  disputes  of  the  Byzantine  Empire  —  Homoousian  and 
Homoiousian  —  will  often  to-day  be  brought  up  vividly  to  the 
mind  of  the  traveler.  Especially  the  ceremonies  of  the  Eastern 
Church  are  maintained  with  much  vigor  and  nice  distinction  in  a 
very  fine-spun,  and  consequently  very  thin,  tissue  of  argumenta- 
tion. 


13610  DENTON   J.  SNIDER 

After  excusing;  myself  from  the  Papas,  who  in  company  with 
me  performs  a  slight  inner  baptism  of  himself  with  a  glass  of 
recinato  as  the  final  ceremony  of  the  day,  I  ask  to  be  conducted 
to  my  quarters,  and  am  led  to  an  adjoining  building  up-stairs. 
The  room  is  without  furniture.  In  one  corner  of  it  lies  a  mat- 
tress covered  with  coarse  sheeting  and  a  good  quilt,  on  the  floor 
—  for  in  Greece  bedsteads  are  not  much  in  vogue :  they  are  con- 
sidered to  be  in  the  way,  and  to  take  up  unnecessary  room ;  so 
the  bedclothes  are  spread  out  on  the  floor  along  the  hearth  every 
evening,  and  packed  away  every  morning.  This  bed  was  consid- 
ered a  particularly  good  one ;  intended  for  strangers  who  might 
visit  Marathon,  and  who  had  to  pay  for  it  two  francs  a  night. 
Indeed,  during  a  great  portion  of  the  3-ear  in  this  hot  climate, 
the  bed  is  not  only  unnecessary  but  a  nuisance,  in  which  one  can 
only  roll  and  swelter;  hence  the  family  bed  has  no  such  place  in 
the  Greek  as  in  the  Northern  household. 

The  light  which  is  left  me  is  also  worthy  of  a  passing  notice. 
It  consists  of  a  cup  two-thirds  filled  with  water;  on  the  water 
lies  half  an  inch  of  olive  oil;  on  the  surface  of  the  oil  is  floating 
a  small  piece  of  wood,  to  which  a  slender  wick  is  attached  reach- 
ing into  the  oil;  the  upper  end  of  this  wick  is  lighted,  and  pain- 
fully throws  its  shadowy  glimmer  on  the  walls.  A  truly  pristine 
light, —  going  back  probably  to  old  Homer,  thinks  the  traveler, 
by  which  the  blind  bard  could  have  sat  and  hymned  his  lines  to 
eager  listeners  around  the  evening  board;  an  extremely  econom- 
ical light,  burning  the  entire  night  without  any  diminution  of 
the  oil  apparently,  and  giving  a  proportionate  illumination;  it  is 
a  hard  light  to  read  by,  still  harder  to  wTite  by.  There  is  no 
tallow  in  the  coiintry  for  candles;  the  little  wax  which  is  pro- 
duced is  used  for  tapers  in  the  churches.  There  is  no  desk  or 
chair  in  the  room ;  one  inust  write  on  the  floor  in  some  way,  if 
he  wishes  to  send  a  line  to  the  dear  ones,  or  take  a  note. 

Accordingly  the  traveler  goes  to  bed,  props  himself  upon 
his  elbow,  opens  his  book  on  the  floor  near  the  light, —  but  the 
eyes  swim  for  a  moment,  the  head  totters,  back  it  falls  upon  the 
mattress:  that  is  the  end  of  one  day's  adventure;  he  will  rapidly 
descend  into  Lethe,  where,  though  in  dream  she  fight  the  great 
battle  over  again  alongside  of  Miltiades  at  one  moinent,  and  the 
next  moment  argue  the  question  of  bap ti sin  with  the  Papas,  he 
will  lie  in  sweet  unconscious  repose,  till  the  Sun-god,  rising  from 
his  bath  in  the  ocean,  stretch  his  long  golden  fingers  through  the 


DENTOxM  J.  SNIDER  13611 

window,  gently  open  the  eyelids,  and  whisper  to  the  slumberer, 
who  will  hear  though  half  awake :  "  Rise,  it  is  the  day  of  Mara- 
thon.'* Thereupon  the  traveler  leaps  from  his  couch, —  for  he 
knows  that  it  is  the  voice  of  a  god,  and  he  dares  not  disobey: 
if  he  have  any  winged  sandals,  he  now  puts  them  on,  for  to-day 
he  will  have  to  make  an  Olympian  flight;  if  he  have  that  staff 
of  Hermes  with  wdiich  the  Argus-slayer  conducts  departed  souls 
out  of  Hades  and  into  it,  he  will  seize  the  same  and  sally  forth; 
for  to-day  he  will  have  to  call  up  from  the  past  many  mighty 
spirits, —  those  colossal   shades  which   still  rise   at   Marathon. 

When  I  came  out  of  my  high-sounding  chamber  in  the 
morning,  I  met  my  good  host  with  a  ewer  of  water,  which  he 
proceeded  to  pour  upon  my  hands  for  the  purpose  of  ablu- 
tion; unpoetical  w^ash-basins  do  not  exist,  or  were  refused  me, 
perchance  on  account  of  my  Homeric  habits.  After  a  breakfast 
quite  like  the  supper  on  the  previous  evening,  I  begin  the  march 
for  the  battle  of  Marathon,  having  filled  a  small  haversack  with 
a  piece  of  black  bread  and  some  cheese  for  luncheon,  and  having 
slung  around  my  shoulder  a  canteen  of  recinato.  Nor  do  I  for- 
get my  chief  weapons, —  two  books  and  the  maps,  which  I  hold 
tightly  under  my  arm.  Thus  equipped,  I  tread  along, —  with 
becoming   modesty   I   trust,   yet   with   no    small    hopes   of  victory. 

But  there  is  no  hurry:  let  the  gait  still  be  leisurely.  As  I 
pass  down  the  road  through  the  village  which  is  spread  out  on 
the  banks  of  the  stream,  I  meet  many  an  acquaintance  made  the 
evening  before  at  the  wine-shop;  each  recognizes  me  by  a  slight 
nod  of  the  head,  with  a  pleasant  smile.  All  of  them  seemed 
still  to  be  laughing  at  the  idea  of  my  being  an  ancient  hoplite 
now  revisiting  former  scenes  of  activity.  Such  friendly  greeting 
on  every  side,  together  with  the  genial  sunshine  of  the  morning, 
puts  the  traveler  into  a  happy  mood,  slightly  transcendental  per- 
haps. Whatever  he  now  does  is  an  adventure  worth  recording  to 
future  ages;    whatever  he  now  sees  is  a  divine  revelation. 

Passing  along  to  a  shelving  place  in  the  stream,  he  beholds 
the  washers:  one  hundred  women  or  more,  at  work  with  furious 
muscle,  pounding,  scouring,  rubbing,  rinsing  the  filth-begrimed 
fustanellas  of  their  husbands,  brothers,  sons.  There  is  a  strength, 
vigor,  and  I  should  say  anger  in  their  motions,  that  they  seem 
animated  by  some  feeling  of  revenge  against  those  dirty  gar- 
ments, and  in  my  opinion  with  good  reason.  One  Amazonian  arm 
is   wielding  a  billet  of  wood,  quite  of  the  weight  and  somewhat 


126 1 2  DENTON  J.  SNIDER 

resembling  the  shape  of  the  maul  with  which  the  American 
woodman  drives  wedges  into  the  gnarled  oak.  Upon  a  flat 
smooth  stone  are  laid  the  garments,  boiled,  soaped,  and  steaming, 
when  they  are  belabored  by  that  maul.  None  of  our  modern 
machinery  is  seen;  even  the  wash-board  is  very  imperfect,  or 
does  not  appear  at  all.  Somehow  in  this  wise  the  ancient  Nau- 
sicaas  must  have  blanched  their  linen  at  the  clear  Marathonian 
stream;  one  will  unconsciously  search  now  with  eager  glances  for 
the  divine  Phaeacian  maid,  to  see  whether  she  be  not  here  still. 
At  present  the  washers  are  strewn  along  the  marble  edge  of  the 
water  for  quite  a  distance, —  dressed  in  white,  bare-armed,  mostly 
bare-footed  and  bare-legged,  in  the  liveliest,  fiercest  muscular  mo- 
tion, as  if  wrestling  desperately  with  some  fiend.  Look  at  the 
struggling,  wriggling,  smiting  mass  of  mad  women, —  Maenads 
under  some  divine  enthusiasm, —  while  the  sides  of  old  Kotroni 
Mountain  across  the  river  re-echo  with  the  thud  of  their  relent- 
less billets.  A  truly  Marathonian  battle  against  filth,  with  this 
very  distinct  utterance :  ^^  For  one  day  at  least  we  are  going  to 
be  clean  in  Marathon.  '*  • 

But  it  is  impossible  to  look  at  the  washers  all  the  time,  how- 
ever fascinating  the  view;  indeed,  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  I 
am  on  my  way  to  the  field  of  the  great  battle  —  which  does  •  not 
speak  well  for  an  ancient  hoplite.  I  still  pass  along  the  stream, 
with  its  white  lining  of  marble  through  which  flows  the  current 
pellucid;  —  what!  are  the  eyes  deceived,  or  is  the  water  actually 
diminishing  in  the  channel  ?  Yes,  not  only  has  it  diminished, 
but  now  a  few  steps  further  it  has  wholly  vanished,  sunk  away 
into  the  earth,  leaving  merely  a  dry  rocky  bed  for  the  wildest 
torrent  of  the  storm.  Thus  that  crisp  joyous  mountain  stream 
which  gave  us  such  delight  in  its  dance  down  the  hill  through 
the  valley,  when  we  looked  at  it  coming  to  Marathon,  now  dis- 
appears with  its  entire  volume  of  water,  to  rise  again  in  the 
marshes   beyond,  or   perchance   in    the    sea. 

So  one  saunters  down  that  short  neck  which  attaches  the  vil- 
lage to  the  plain,  joyously  attuned  by  the  climate,  and  trying  to 
throw  himself  back  into  that  spirit  which  created  the  old  Greek 
mythology,  determined  to  see  here  what  an  ancient  Greek  would 
see.  Nature  begins  to  be  alive;  she  begins  to  speak  strange 
things  in  his  soul,  and  to  reveal  new  shapes  to  his  vision;  an 
Oread  skips  along,  the  mountain  with  him,  while  the  Naiads  cir- 
cle in  a  chorus  round  the  neighboring  fountain.     Such  company 


DENTON   J.  SNIDER  1361? 

he  must  find  if  he  truly  travel  in  Greece.  Not  as  a  sentimental 
play  of  the  fancy,  not  as  a  pretty  bauble  for  the  amusement 
of  a  dreary  hour,  but  as  a  vital  source  of  faith  and  action,  as 
a  deep  and  abiding  impulse  to  the  greatest  and  most  beautiful 
works,  will  the  loyal  traveler  seek  to  realize  within  himself  these 
antique  forms. 

But  that  shape  at  yonder  spring  drawing  water  —  what  can  it 
be?  Clearly  not  a  Naiad:  dark  eyes  flashing  out  from  blooming 
features  that  lie  half  hidden  among  her  hair  falling  down  care- 
lessly on  both  sides  of  her  forehead,  a  short  dress  drooping  over 
her  luxuriant  frame  in  romantic  tatters  of  many  colors,  under 
which  the  bosom  swells  half  exposed,  cause  the  white  water- 
nymphs  to  vanish  into  viewless  air,  and  leave  a  seductive  image 
behind,  which  will  long  accompany  the  traveler  in  spite  of  him- 
self; rising  at  intervals  and  dancing  through  his  thoughts  even 
at  Marathon.  It  is  the  Wallachian  maiden  who  has  come  down 
from  her  mountain  lodge  for  water,  which  in  two  large  casks 
she  puts  on  the  back  of  a  donkey.  A  wild  beauty,  fascinating 
on  account  of  wildness,  not  devoid  of  a  certain  coy  coquetry,  she 
seems  not  displeased  to  have  attracted  the  marked  attention  of 
that  man  in  Prankish  garments  who  is  passing  along  the  road; 
for  her  dark  eyes  shoot  out  new  sparkles  from  under  the  falling 
tresses,  tempered  with  subdued  smiles.  She  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  villagers  of  Marathon:  she  is  a  child  of  the  mountains: 
she  belongs  to  a  different  world.  Slowly  she  passes  out  of  sight 
with  her  charge  into  the  brushwood;  looking  back  at  the  last 
step,  she  stoops  and  plucks  a  flower;  then  she  springs  up  and 
vanishes  among  the  leaves. 

It  is  a  slight  disappointment,  perhaps;  but  look  now  in  the 
opposite  direction,  and  you  will  behold  in  the  road  going  toward 
the  plain  a  new  and  very  delightful  appearance:  three  white 
robes  are  there  moving  gracefully  along  through  the  clear  atmo- 
sphere, and  seem  to  be  set  in  high  relief  against  the  hilly  back- 
ground. Three  women  —  evidently  of  the  wealthier  people  of 
the  village,  for  their  garments  are  of  stainless  purity  and  adjusted 
with  unusual  care, — appear  to  be  taking  a  walk  at  their  leisure 
down  the  valley.  Their  dress  is  a  long  loose  gown  flowing  freely 
down  to  the  heels;  all  of  it  shows  the  spotless  white  except  a 
narrow  pink  border.  Over  this  dress  is  worn  a  woolen  mantilla, 
also  white  with  a  small  border.  At  the  view  there  arises  the 
feeling    which    will    often    be    experienced    in    other    localities   of 


J2614  DENTON   J.  SNIDER 

Greece  with  even  greater  intensity:  the  feeling  of  a  living  plastic 
outline  which  suggests  its  own  copy  in  marble.  No  costume  can 
possibly  be  so  beautiful  and  so  distinct  in  this  atmosphere;  there 
they  move  along,  as  if  statues  shotild  start  from  their  pedestals 
and  walk  down  from  their  temples  through  the  fields.  Why  the 
white  material  was  taken  by.  the  old  artists  for  sculpture,  becomes 
doubly  manifest  now:  here  is  the  living  model  in  her  fair  dra- 
pery; yonder  across  the  river  is  the  marble,  Pentelic  marble, 
cropping  out  of  the  hills.  Unite  the  twain:  they  belong  together; 
both  have  still  a  mute  longing  to  be  joined  once  more  in  happy 
marriage.  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  the  ancient  Marathon- 
ian  woman  in  the  age  of  the  battle  paced  through  this  valley 
in  a  similar  costume,  producing,  similar  sensations  in  this  bluish 
transparent  air. 

But  the  three  shapes  draw  near;  one  will  look  into  their  faces 
as  they  pass:  they  are  Albanian  women, — not  beautiful  by  any 
means,  not  with  features  corresponding  to  their  costumes,  you 
will  say.  Therefore  we  must  add  something  very  essential  to 
bring  back  that  ancient  Greek  woman;  for  she  had  brought  body 
into  the  happiest  harmony  with  dress,  if  we  may  judge  of  those 
types  which  have  come  down  to  us.  Still '  this  is  a  delightful 
vision  of  antique  days,  passing  with  stately  gait  through  the  clear 
sunlit  landscape;  —  forms  of  white  marble  in  contrast  to  the 
many-colored  tatters  of  the  Wallachian  maiden,  who,  having  no 
sympathy  of  dress  with  the  climate,  shows  that  she  does  not 
belong  to  Marathon. 

Now  we  have  arrived  —  if  you  have  succeeded  in  keeping  up 
with  me  —  at  the  point  where  the  bed  of  the  river  passes  into 
the  plain,  in  full  view  of  which  we  at  present  stand.  It  sweeps 
around  almost  crescent-shaped,  like  the  side  of  a  vast  amphi- 
theatre cut  into  the  mountains:  the  line  from  tip  to  tip  of  the 
arc  is  said  to  measure  about  six  miles.  That  line,  seen  from 
the  spot  where  we  now  are,  has  a  beautiful  blue  border  of  spark- 
ling water, —  the  Euripus,  which  separates  the  mainland  from  the 
island  Euboea.  There  is  upon  the  plain  but  one  tree  worthy  of 
the  name, —  a  conifer  which  rises  strange  and  solitary  about  in 
the  centre  of  it,  and  looks  like  a  man,  with  muffled  head  in  sol- 
dier's cloak  standing  guard,  still  waiting  for  some  enemy  to'  come 
out  of  the  East.  The  plain  is  at  present  largely  cultivated,  vine- 
yards and  fields  of  grain  are  scattered  through  it,  but  the  ancient 
olives   are  wanting.     At   the  northern  horn  of   the   crescent  is  a 


\ 


DENTON  J.  SNIDER  13615 

large  morass  running  quite  parallel  to  the  sea;  a  smaller  one  is 
at  the  southern  horn.  Into  the  plain  two  villages  debouch,  both 
having  roads  from  Athens.  There  is  a  beautiful  shore  gradually- 
shelving  off  into  deep  water  with  a  gravel  bottom;  here  the 
traveler  will  sit  long  and  look  at  the  waves  breaking  one  after 
another  upon  the  beach.  This  coast,  however,  is  but  a  narrow 
strip  for  several  miles;  just  behind  it  lies  amid  the  grass  the 
deceptive  marsh,  not  visible  at  any  considerable  distance.  This 
morass  and  its  conformation  will  explain  the  great  miracle  of  the 
battle:  namely,  its  decisiveness,  notwithstanding  the  enormous 
disparity  in  the  numbers  of  the  two  contending  armies.  For  the 
morass  was  the  treacherous  enemy  lurking  in  ambuscade  at  the 
rear  and  under  the  very  feet  of  the  Persians. 

In  regard  to  the  battle  of  Marathon  we  have  onl}?-  one  trust- 
worthy account:  this  is  given  by  Herodotus,  the  Father  of  His- 
tory. It  is  short,  and  omits  much  that  we  would  like  to  know, 
indeed  must  know  in  order  to  comprehend  the  battle.  Still,  a 
view  of  the  ground  will  suggest  the  general  plan,  with  the  help 
of  the  old  historian's  hints,  and  of  one  contemporary  fact  handed 
down  by  the  traveler  Pausanias.  The  battle  was  a  fierce  attack 
in  front,  aided  by  the  enemy  in  the  rear, —  the  morass,  which  had 
a  double  power.  It  on  the  one  hand  prevented  the  foe  from 
getting  assistance,  which  could  only  come  from  the  ships  by  a 
long  detour  round  the  narrow  strip  of  coast  easily  blocked  by 
a  few  soldiers.  On  the  other  hand,  broken  or  even  unbroken 
lines  being  forced  into  the  swampy  ground  would  become  hope- 
lessly disordered,  and  would  have  enough  to  do  fighting  the 
enemy   under  their  feet. 

Imagine  now  this  line  of  coast  with  the  vessels  drawn  up 
sternwards  along  the  shelving  bank;  then  comes  the  narrow 
strip  of  shore  on  which  a  portion  of  the  Persian  army  lies  en- 
camped; then  follows  the  marshy  tract,  then  the  plain  upon  which 
another  portion  of  the  Persian  army  is  drawn  up;  still  further 
and  beyond  the  plain  is  the  slope  of  the  mountain,  where  with 
good  vision  you  can  see  the  Athenians  arrayed  in  order  of  battle. 
At  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  two  villages,  doubtless  near  the 
modern  hamlet  of  Vrana,  they  have  taken  position;  since  they 
could  easily  pass  round  the  road  and  protect  the  other  valley,  if 
a  movement  should  be  made  in  that  direction  by  the  enemy. 
Single-handed  of  all  the  States  of  Greece  they  stand  here;  they 
had  sent  for  aid  to  the  Spartans,  who  refused  to  come  on  ac- 
count of  a   relioious  festival.       Still  the   suspicion   lives,   nnrl   will 


13616  DENTON  J.  SNIDER 

forever  live  through  history,  that  this  was  a  mere  pretense;  that 
the  Spartans  would  gladly  have  seen  their  rival  destroyed, 
though  at  the  peril   of  Greek  freedom. 

But  who  are  these  men  filing  silently  through  the  brushwood 
of  Mount  Kotroni,  in  leather  helmets  and  rude  kilts,  hurrying 
forward  to  the  aid  of  the  Athenians  ?  They  are  the  Plataeans, 
a  small  community  of  B(EOtia,  —  in  all  Greece  the  only  town  out- 
side of  Attica  that  has  the  courage  and  the  inclination  to  face 
the  Persian  foe.  One  thousand  men  are  here  from  that  small 
place, — a  quiet  rural  village  lying  on  the  slopes  of  Kithaeron:  the 
whole  male  population,  one  is  forced  to  think,  including  every 
boy  and  old  inan  capable  of  bearing  arms,  is  in  that  band;  for 
the  entire  community  could  hardly  number  more  than  three  or 
four  thousand  souls.  Yet  here  they  are  to  the  last  man :  one 
almost  imagines  that  some  of  the  women  must  be  among  them 
in  disguise, —  as  to-day  the  Greek  women  of  Parnassus  often 
handle  the  gun  with  skill,  and  have  been  known  to  fight  desper- 
ately in  the  ranks  alongside  of  their  fathers  and  brothers.  But 
think  of  what  was  involved  in  that  heroic  deed :  the  rude  vil- 
lagers assemble  when  the  messenger  comes  with  the  fearful  news 
that  the  Persian  had  landed  just  across  at  Marathon;  in  the 
market-place  they  deliberate,  having  hurried  from  their  labor  in 
the  fields,  in  coarse  rustic  garb  with  bare  feet  slipped  into  low 
sandals;  uncouth  indeed  they  seem,  but  if  there  ever  were  men 
on  the  face  of  this  earth,  they  were  in  Plataea  at  that  hour.  No 
faint-hearted  words  were  there,  we  have  the  right  to  assume  —  no 
half-hearted  support;  no  hesitation:  every  man  takes  his  place  in 
the  files,  the  command  to  march  is  given,  and  they  all  are  off. 
Nor  can  we  forget  the  anxiety  left  behind  in  the  village:  the 
Greek  wife  with  child  on  her  arm  peers  out  of  the  door,  tak- 
ing a  last  look  at  the  receding  column  winding  up  Kithasron, 
and  disappearing  over  its  summit;  there  is  not  a  husband,  not  a 
grown-up  son  remaining  in  Plataea.  What  motive,  do  you  ask  ? 
I  believe  that  these  rude  Greek  rustics  were  animated  by  a 
profound  instinct  which  may  be  called  not  only  national  but 
world-historical, —  the  instinct  of  hostUity  to  the  Orient  and  its 
principle,  in  favor  of  political  autonomy  and  individual  freedom. 
Also  another  ground  of  their  conduct  was  gratitude  toward  the 
Athenians  who  had  saved  them  from  the  tyranny  of  Thebes, 
their  overbearing  neighbor:  now  their  benefactors  are  in  the  sor- 
est need;  patriotism  and  friendship  alike  command;  there  can  be 
no  hesitation.     So  those  thousand  men  on  a  September  day  wind 


DENTON    J.   SNIDER  I  36  17 

through  the  pines  and  arbutes  of  Kotroni  with  determined  tread, 
are  received  with  great  joy  by  the  Athenians,  and  at  once  take 
their  position  on  the  left  wing  ready  for  the  onset.  Let  any 
village  in  the  world's  history  match  the  deed!  Well  may  the 
Athenians  after  that  day  join  the  Plataeans  with  themselves  in 
public  prayers  to  the  gods  in  whose  defense  both  have  marched 
out. 

Scarcely  have  these  allies  arrived,  we  may  suppose,  when  the 
moment  of  battle  is  at  hand.  Doubtless  it  was  the  most  favor- 
able moment,  and  as  such  eagerly  seized  by  Miltiades:  why  it 
was  so  favorable,  no  one  at  this  late  day  can  know.  Perhaps  the 
much-feared  Persian  cavalry  were  absent  on  a  foraging  expedi- 
tion; perhaps  the  enemy  were  negligent,  or  were  embarking;  or 
as  Herodotus  say^,  because  it  was  Miltiades's  day  of  command, 
—  alas,  who  can  tell  ?  At  any  rate  the  order  to  charge  is  given; 
down  the  declivity  the  Greeks  rush,  over  the  plain  for  a  mile. 
The  deep  files  on  the  wings  of  their  army  bear  everything  before 
them;  but  the  centre  is  defeated  for  a  time  and  driven  back,  for 
it  had  apparently  been  weakened  to  strengthen  the  wings.  Such 
is  the  first  fierce  attack. 

Now  comes  the  second  stage  of  the  struggle,  the  battle  at 
the  marshes.  The  front  of  the  enemy,  pressed  by  the  Greeks, 
and  consolidated  into  a  mass  of  panic-stricken  fugitives,  bore  the 
rear  backwards;  thus  the  whole  hostile  army  pushed  itself  into 
the  swamp.  Whoever  has  seen  a  regiment  of  infantry  in  a  mo- 
rass, reeling,  struggling  with  broken  lines,  sinking  under  their 
equipments,  soldiers  extricating  one  foot  only  to  sink  deeper  with 
the  other,  cursing  their  stars  and  damning  the  war, —  that  is,  a 
complete  loss  of  all  discipline,  and  a  sort  of  despair  on  account 
of  the  new  victorious  enemy  underfoot, —  such  a  person  can 
imagine  the  condition  of  a  large  part  of  the  Persian  army  after 
that  attack.  The  Greek  lines  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  marsh, 
and  smote  the  struggling  disordered  mass  with  little  or  no  loss 
to  themselves.  They  also  prevented  succor  from  coming  round 
the  narrow  tongue  of  coast  till  the  battle  at  the  morass  was  over, 
wholly  victorious  for  the  Greeks. 

The  narrative  of  Herodotus  omits  entirely  this  second  stage 
of  the  conflict,  and  modern  historians  have  slurred  it  over  with 
little  or  no  separate  attention.  Thus,  however,  the  whole  battle 
is  an  unaccountable  mystery.  Fortunately  this  struggle  at  the 
morass  and   its  result  are  vouched   for   by  an    authority  at   once 


j26iS  DENTON   J.  SNIDER 

original  and  contemporaneous, —  an  authority  even  better  than 
Herodotus,  who  was  a  foreigner  from  Asia  Minor.  It  was  the 
picture  in  the  Poekile  at  Athens  painted  not  long  after  the  battle. 
Of  the  details  of  that  picture  we  have  several  important  hints 
from  ancient  authors.  Says  Pausanias,  evidently  speaking  of  its 
leading  motive,  it  shows  *^  the  barbarians  fleeing  and  pushing  one 
another  into  the  swamp.**  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  was 
the  salient  and  decisive  fact  of  the  battle:  the  barbarians  fled 
and  pushed  one  another  into  the  swamp.  By  the  fierce  onset  of 
the  Greeks  the  front  lines  of  the  enemy  were  driven  upon  the 
rear,  and  the  whole  multitude  was  carried  by  its  own  weight  into 
the  treacherous  ground,  numbers  only  increasing  the  momentum 
and  the  confusion.  Such  was  the  conception  of  the  artist  paint- 
ing the  battle  before  the  eyes  of  the  very  men  who  had  partici- 
pated in  it;  such  therefore  we  must  take  to  be  the  contemporary 
Athenian  conception.  The  picture  may  well  be  considered  to  be 
the  oldest  historical  document  we  have  concerning  the  fight,  and 
as  even  better  evidence  than  the  foreign  historian.  The  ground, 
moreover,  as  we  look  at  it  to-day,  tells  the  same  story.  A  skill- 
ful military  commander  of  the  present  time,  other  things  being 
equal,  would  make  the  same  plan  of  attack.  Thus  too  the  great 
miracle  of  the  battle  —  the  defeat  of  so  many  by  so  few,  and  the 
small  loss  of  the  victors  —  is  reasonably  cleared  up. 

The  third  stage  of  the  conflict  was  the  battle  at  the  ships, 
while  the  enemy  were  embarking.  This,  to  be  successful,  had 
to  take  place  partly  upon  the  narrow  strip  of  shore  to  which 
the  Greeks  must  penetrate  at  a  disadvantage.  In  their  zeal  they 
rushed  into  the  water  down  the  shelving  pebbly  bottom  in  order 
to  seize  the  fleet;  still  the  faithful  traveler  visiting  the  scene 
will,  after  their  example,  wade  far  out  into  the  sea.  Seven  vessels 
were  taken  out  of  six  hundred,  the  enemy  making  good  their 
embarkation.  Many  Greeks  here  suffered  the  fate  of  brave 
Kynegeirus,  brother  of  the  poet  ^schylus,  who,  seizing  hold  of  a 
vessel,  had  his  arms  chopped  off  by  a  Persian  battle-axe.  In 
general,  the  Greeks  were  repulsed  at  the  battle  of  the  ships;  but 
this  third  stage,  since  the  enemy  were  leaving,  is  the  least  import- 
ant of  the  whole  conflict. 

Not  a  word  does  Herodotus  say  about  the  numbers  engaged 
on  either  side:  a  strange,  unaccountable  omission.  Yet  he  must 
nave  conversed  with  men  who  fought  at  the  battle,  —  with  the 
leaders  possibly, —  and  he  gives  with  the  greatest  care  the  loss  on 


DENTON  J.  SNIDER  I3619 

both  sides, —  6,400  Persians,  192  Athenians.  The  omission  leads 
to  the  conjecture  that  he  could  not  find  out  the  true  figures; 
yet  why  not  at  Athens,  where  they  must  have  been  known  ?  It 
is  a  puzzle:  let  each  one  solve  it  by  his  own  conjecture,  which 
is  likely  to  be  as  good  as  anybody  else's. 

Ancient  writers  much  later  than  the  battle  give  to  the  Per- 
sians from  210,000  to  600,000  men;  to  the  Athenians  and  Platae- 
ans  10,000  men.  Modern  writers  have  sought  through  various 
sources  to  lessen  this  immense  disparity,  by  increasing  the 
Athenian  and  diminishing  the  Persian  numbers.  Indeed,  Mara- 
thon became  the  topic  of  the  wildest  exaggeration  for  the  Greek 
orators  and  .rhetoricians:  300,000  were  said  to  have  been  slain  by 
less  than  10,000;  Kynegeirus,  already  mentioned,  is  declared  to 
have  had  first  the  right  hand  cut  off,  then  the  left  hand,  then 
to  have  seized  the  vessel  with  his  teeth  like  a  wild  animal;  Cal- 
limachus,  a  brave  general  who  was  slain,  is  represented  to  have 
been  pierced  by  so  many  weapons  that  he  was  held  up  by  their 
shafts.  It  was  the  great  commonplace  of  Athenian  oratory; 
thence  it  has  passed  to  be  the  world's  commonplace.  Justly,  in 
my  opinion:  for  it  is  one  of  the  supreme  world-events,  and  not 
merely  a  local  or  even  national  affair;  thus  the  world  will  talk 
of  its  own  deeds.  Do  not  imagine  with  the  shallow-brained  de- 
tractor that  rhetoric  has  made  Marathon;  no,  Marathon  rather 
has  made  rhetoric,  among  other  greater  things. 

Far  more  interesting  than  these  rhetorical  exaggerations  of  a 
later  time  are  the  contemporary  accounts  which  come  from  the 
people  and  show  their  faith, —  the  legends  of  supernatural  appear- 
ances which  took  part  in  the  fight.  For  there  was  aught  divine, 
the  people  must  believe,  at  work  visibly  upon  the  battle-field  that 
day.  Epizelus,  a  soldier  in  the  ranks,  was  stricken  blind,  and  re- 
mained so  during  life,  at  the  vision  of  a  'gigantic  warrior  with  a 
huge  beard,  who  passed  near  him  and  smote  the  enemy.  The- 
seus the  special  Athenian  hero,  Hercules  the  universal  Greek  hero, 
were  there  and  seen  of  men;  no  doubt  of  it,  the  heroes  all  did 
fight  along,  with  very  considerable  effect  too.  Nor  were  the  gods 
absent:  the  god  Pan,  regardless  of  slighted  divinity,  met  the 
courier  Phidippides  on  the  way  to  Sparta  for  aid,  and  promised 
his  divine  help  if  the  Athenians  would  neglect  him  no  longer. 
Finally,  Athena  herself,  the  protecting  goddess  of  the  city,  in 
helm  and  spear  strode  there  through  the  ranks,  shaking  her 
dreadful  aegis,  visible  to  many  —  nay,  to  all  —  Athenian  eyes. 


j^520  DENTON   J.  SNIDER 

Even  a  new  hero  appears,  unheard  of  before;  in  rough  rus- 
tic garb,  armed  with  a  plowshare  he  smote  the  Oriental  foe  who 
had  invaded  his  soil.  After  the  battle  he  vanishes :  who  was  he  ? 
On  consulting  an  oracle,  the  Athenians  were  merely  told  to  pay 
honors  to  the  Hero  Echetlus.  On  the  whole  the  most  interesting 
and  characteristic  of  all  these  appearances  —  the  rustic  smiter  he 
is,  who  reveals  the  stout  rude  work  put  in  by  the  Attic  peasant 
on  that  famous  day.  Indeed,  all  who  fell  were  buried  on  the 
sacred  ground  of  the  battle,  and  were  worshiped  as  heroes  with 
annual  rites.  vStill  in  the  time  of  the  traveler  Pausanias,  about 
a  hundred  and  fifty  years  after  Christ,  the  air  was  filled  at  night 
with  the  blare  of  trumpets,  the  neighing  of  steeds,  and  the  clan- 
gor of  battle.  Says  he :  **  It  is  dangerous  to  go  to  the  spot  for 
the  express  purpose  of  seeing  what  is  going  on;  but  if  a  man 
finds  himself  there  by  accident  without  having  heard  about  the 
matter,  the  gods  will  not  be  angry."  Greece  was,  at  the  period 
of  Pausanias,  extinct  in  Roman  servitude;  yet  the  clash  of  that 
battle  could  be  heard  —  loud,  angry,  even  dangerous  —  over  six 
hundred  years  after  the  event.  Still  the  modern  peasant  hears 
the  din  of  combat  in  the  air  sometimes;  I  asked  him,  he  was  a 
little  shy  of  the  matter;  the  noise,  however,  has  become  to  him 
comparatively  feeble, —  still  there  is  a  noise.  But  long  will  it  be, 
one  may  well  think,  before  that  noise  wholly  subsides. 

So  the  heroes  and  'gods  fought  along  with  the  Athenians  at 
Marathon,  visible,  almighty,  and  in  wrath.  Thus  it  has  been 
delivered  to  us  on  good  authority:  thus  I,  for  one,  am  going  to 
believe,  for  the  event  shows  it;  far  otherwise  had  been  the  story 
if  the  gods  had  not  fought  along  on  that  day.  There  would 
have  been  no  Marathonian  victory,  no  Athens,  no  Greek  liter- 
ature, for  us  at  least.  But  now  Theseus,  the  deserving  hero,  will 
have  a  new  temple,  beautiful,  enduring,  at  this  moment  nearly 
perfect,  after  almost  twenty-four  centuries.  Athena  also  will 
have  a  new  temple,  larger  and  more  beautiful  than  any  hereto- 
fore, still  the  imattained  type  of  all  temples;  it  shall  be  called, 
in  honor  of  the  virgin  goddess,  the  Parthenon.  Attic  song  will 
now  burst  forth,  Attic  art  too,  celebrating  just  this  Marathon 
victory;  that  long  line  of  poets,  orators,  philosophers,  historians, 
will  now  appear,  all  because  the  gods  fought  along  at  Mara- 
thon.    .     . 

The  most  prominent  object  on  the  plain  of  Marathon  is  an 
artificial   mound,  perhaps  thirty  feet  high  at  present;    upon  it  is 


I 


DENTON    J.  SNIDER  13621 

growing-  some  low  brushwood.  It  is  generally  considered  to  be 
the  tomb  of  the  192  Athenians  who  were  buried  on  the  battle- 
field, and  had  there  a  monument  on  which  their  tribe  and  their 
names  were  written.  To  the  summit  of  this  mound  the  traveler 
will  ascend  and  sit  down;  he  will  thank  the  brambles  grow- 
ing upon  it  that  they  have  preserved  it  so  well  in  their  rude 
embrace  from  the  leveling  rains.  He  may  reasonably  feel  that 
he  is  upon  the  rampart  which  separates  the  East  from  the 
West.  Yonder  just  across  this  narrow  strait  are  the  mount- 
ains of  Euboea,  snow-capped  and  loftily  proud;  yet  they  stooped 
their  heads  to  the  Persian  conqueror.  All  the  islands  of  the  sea 
siibmitted;  Asia  Minor  submitted.  But  here  upon  this  shore, 
defiantly  facing  the  East,  was  the  first  successful  resistance  to 
the  Oriental  principle;  its  supporters  could  hardly  do  more  than 
make  a  landing  upon  these  banks,  when  down  from  the  mount- 
ains swept  fire  and  whirlwind,  burning  them  up,  driving  them 
into  the  sea.  Here  then  our  West  begins  or  began  in  space  and 
time, —  we  might  say  upon  this  very  mound;  that  semicircular 
sweep  of  hills  yonder  forms  the  adamantine  wall  which  shut  out 
Orientalism.  Regard  their  shape  once  more:  they  seem  to  open 
like  a  huge  pair  of  forceps,  only  in  order  to  close  again  and 
press  to  death. 

Strange  is  the  lot  of  the  men  buried  here  —  the  unconscious 
instruments  of  a  world's  destiny  —  nameless  except  two  or  three 
possibly.  Yet  they  had  some  mighty  force  in  them  and  back  of 
them:  one  is  quite  inclined  to  think  that  they  must  have  remotely 
felt  in  some  dim  far-off  presentiment  what  lay  in  their  deed  for 
the  future,  and  that  such  feeling  nerved  their  arms  to  a  hun- 
dredfold intensity.  Here  upon  the  mound  this  question  comes 
home  to  us  before  all  others:  What  is  man  but  that  which  he  is 
ready  to  die  for  ?  Such  is  his  earthly  contradiction :  if  he  have 
that  for  which  he  is  willing  to  give  his  life,  then  he  has  a  most 
vital,  perdurable  energy;  but  if  he  have  naught  for  which  he 
would  die,  then  he  is  already  dead,  buried  ignobly  in  a  tomb  of 
flesh. 

But  what  is  this  Greek  principle  which  Marathon  has  pre- 
served for  us  against  the  Orient  ?  It  is  not  easy  to  be  formulated 
in  words,  to  anybody's  complete  satisfaction.  Politically,  it  is 
freedom;  in  art,  it  is  beauty;  in  mind,  it  is  philosophy;  and  so 
on  through  many  other  abstract  prcdicables.  Perhaps  we  may 
say  that  the  fundamental   idea  of  Greece  is  the  self-development 


1^622  DENTON   J.  SNIDER 

of  the  individual  in  all  its  phases, —  the  individual  State,  the  indi- 
vidual city  or  town,  the  individual  man.  Henceforth  the  task  is 
to  unfold  the  germ  which  lies  within,  removed  from  external 
trammels;  to  give  to  the  individual  a  free,  full,  harmonious  devel- 
opment. Thus  will  be  produced  the  great  types  of  States,  of  men, 
of  events ;  still  further,  these  types  will  then  be  reproduced  by  the 
artist  in  poetry,  in  inarble,  in  history,  and  in  many  other  forms. 
This  second  production  or  reproduction  is  indeed,  of  all  Gre- 
cian things,  the   most  memorable. 

The  battle  of  Marathon  is  itself  a  type,  and  has  always  been 
considered  by  the  world  as  a  supreme  type  of  its  kind,  represent- 
ing a  phase  of  the  spiritual.  Athens  from  this  moment  has 
the  spirit  of  which  the  Marathonian  deed  is  only  an  utterance. 
Soon  that  spirit  will  break  forth  in  all  directions,  producing  new 
eternal  types,  just  as  Marathon  is  such  a  type  in  its  way.  Athen- 
ian plastic  art,  poetry,  philosophy,  are  manifestations  of  this  same 
spirit,  and  show  in  a  still  higher  degree  than  the  battle,  the  vic- 
tory over  Orientalism.  The  second  Persian  invasion  came,  but 
it  was  only  a  repetition  of  the  first  one;  it  too  was  defeated 
at  Marathon,  which  was  the  primitive  Great  Deed,  the  standing 
image  to  Greece  of  herself  and  all  of  her  possibilities.  Hence 
the  use  of  it  so  often  by  her  writers  and  speakers,  as  well  as  by 
those  of  the  entire  Western  world. 

With  Marathon,  too,  history  properly  begins;  that  is,  the  stream 
of  history.  Now  it  becomes  a  definite,  demonstrable,  unbroken 
current,  sweeping  down  to  our  own  times.  Before  Marathon 
indeed  there  is  history,  and  much  history;  but  it  is  in  flashes, 
short  or  long,  then  going  out  in  darkness.  The  history  of  Greece 
itself  before  Marathon  is  merely  an  agglomeration  of  events  quite 
disconnected.  The  head-waters  take  their  start  at  Marathon; 
Oriental  bubblings  there  are  in  abundance,  but  no  stream.  In 
fact  it  could  not  be  otherwise:  such  is  just  the  character  of  the 
Orient, — to  be  unable  to  create  this  historical  continuity.  But 
the  West  has  it,  and  it  was  won  at  Marathon,  marking  the  great- 
est of  all  transitions  both  in  the  form  and  in  the  substance  of 
history.  Moreover,  the  historic  consciousness  now  arises;  history 
for  the  first  time  is  able  to  record  itself  in  an  adequate  manner. 
If  you  now  scan  him  closely,  you  will  find  that  man  has  come 
to  the  insight  that  he  has  done  in  these  days  something  worthy 
of  being  remembered  forever.  But  where  is  the  scribe  to  set 
it   down  ?     Behold,  here   he   comes,  old  Herodotus,  the   Father  of 


DENTON  J.  SNIDER  1362J 

History,  with  the  first  truly  historical  book;  in  which  he  has 
written,  together  with  the  rest  of  the  Persian  war,  the  noble 
record  of  just  this  great  Marathonian  deed.  Thus  with  the 
worthy  action  appears  the  man  worthy  of  transmitting  its  glory. 

Still  the  traveler  remains  upon  the  top  of  the  mound,  asking 
himself,  Why  is  Marathon  so  famous  ?  Other  battles  have  had 
the  same  disparity  of  numbers  between  the  two  sides,  and  the 
same  completeness  of  victory,  while  they  have  had  the  same 
principle  of  freedom  and  nationality  at  stake.  The  battle  of 
Morgarten,  with  its  sixteen  hundred  Swiss  against  twenty  thou- 
sand Austrians,  is  often  cited,  and  is  sometimes  called  the  Swiss 
Marathon.  But  Morgarten  to  the  world  is  an  obscure  skirmish: 
it  is  not  one  of  the  heroic  deeds  which  determined  a  civilization; 
it  is  not  one  of  the  hallowed  symbols  of  the  race.  This  then 
must  be  the  cause:  Greece  has  created  to  a  large  extent  what 
we  may  call  the  symbols  of  our  Western  world, —  the  typical 
deeds,  the  typical  men,  the  typical  forms  which  are  still  the  ideals 
by  which  we  mold  our  works,  and .  to  which  we  seek,  partially  at 
least,  to  adjust  our  lives. 

Marathon  therefore  stands  for  a  thousand  battles:  all  other 
struggles  for  freedom,  of  wdiich  our  Occident  has  been  full,  are 
merely  echoes,  repetitions,  imitations  to  a  certain  extent,  of  that 
great  primitive  action.  And  Greece  is  just  the  nation  in  his- 
tory which  was  gifted  with  the  power  of  making  all  that  she  did 
a  type  of  its  kind.  The  idea  of  the  West  she  first  had,  in  its 
instinctive  form,  in  its  primal  enchanting  bloom;  most  happily 
she  embodied  that  idea  in  her  actions,  making  them  into  eternal 
things  of  beauty. 

That  is,  all  the  deeds  of  Greece  are  works  of  art.  In  this 
sense  the  battle  of  Marathon  may  be  called  a  work  of  art. 
Grandeur  of  idea  with  perfect  realization  is  the  definition  of 
such  a  work,  and  is  that  quality  which  elevates  the  person  who 
can  rightly  contemplate  it  into  true  insight.  It  fills  the  soul  of 
the  beholder  with  views  of  the  new  future  world,  and  makes  him 
for  a  time  the  sharer  of  its  fruits.  Marathon  is  only  that  single 
wonderful  event,  vet  it  is  svmbolical  of  all  that  are  to  come  after 
it, —  you  may  say,  embraces  them  all;  it  tells  the  race  for  the 
first  time  what  the  race  can  do,  giving  us  a  new  hope  and  a 
new  vision.  So  indeed  does  every  great  work  of  art  and  every 
great  action:  but  this  is  the  grand  original:  it  is  the  prophecy 
of  the  future  standing  there  at  the  opening  of  history,  telling  us 


I 


13624  DENTON   J.  SNIDER 

what  we  too  may  become, —  imparting  to  us  at  this  distance  of 
time  a  fresh  aspiration. 

One  step  further  let  us  push  this  thought,  till  it  mirror  itself 
clearly  and  in  completeness.  The  Athenians  were  not  only  doers 
of  beautiful  deeds,  they  were  also  the  makers  of  beautiful  things 
to  represent  the  same:  they  were  artists.  Not  only  a  practical, 
but  an  equal  theoretic  greatness  was  theirs:  in  no  people  that 
has  hitherto  appeared  were  the  two  primal  elements  of  human 
spirit  —  will  and  intelligence — blended  in  such  happy  harmony; 
here  as  in  all  their  other  gifts  there  was  no  overbalancing,  but 
a  symmetry  which  becomes  musical.  They  first  made  the  deed 
the  type  of  all  deeds,  made  it  a  Marathon ;  then  they  embodied 
it  in  an  actual  work  of  art.  They  were  not  merely  able  to  enact 
the  great  thought,  but  also  to  put  it  into  its  true  outward  form, 
to  be  seen  and  admired  of  men.  Their  action  was  beautiful,  often 
supremely  beautiful, — but  that  was  not  enough;  they  turned 
around  after  having  performed  it,  and  rescued  it  from  the  mo- 
ment of  time  in  which  it  was  born  and  in  which  it  might  perish, 
and  then  made  it  eternal  in   marble,  in  color,   in  prose,  in  verse. 

Thus  we  can  behold  it  still.  On  the  temple  of  Wingless  Vic- 
tory at  Athens  is  to  be  seen  at  this  day  a  frieze  representing  the 
battle  of  Marathon.  There  is  still  to  be  read  that  tremendous 
war  poem,  the  *  Persae  ^  of  ^schylus,  who  also  fought  at  Mara- 
thon; the  white  heat  of  this  first  conflict  and  of  the  later  Persian 
war  can  still  be  felt  in  it  through  the  intervening  thousands  of 
years.  Upon  the  summit  of  the  mound  where  we  now  stand, 
ancient  works  of  art  were  doubtless  placed;  the  stele  inscribed 
with  the  names  of  the  fallen  is  mentioned  by  Pausanias.  Only  a 
short  distance  from  this  tomb  ancient  substructions  can  still  be 
observed:  temples  and  shrines,  statues  and  monuments,  must  have 
been  visible  here  on  all  sides;  to  the  sympathetic  eye  the  whole 
plain  will  now  be  whitened  with  shapes  of  marble  softly  reposing 
in  the  sunshine.  The  Greeks  are  indeed  the  supreme  artistic  peo- 
ple: they  have  created  the  beautiful  symbols  of  the  world;  they 
have  furnished  the  artistic  type  and  have  embodied  it  in  many 
forms;  they  had  the  ideal  and  gave  to  it  an  adequate  expres- 
sion. Moderns  have  done  other  great  things,  but  this  belongs 
to  the  Greeks. 

So  after  the  mighty  Marathonian  deed  there  is  at  Athens  a 
most  determined  struggle,  a  supreme  necessity  laid  upon  the 
people,  to  utter  it  worthily,  to  reveal  it  in  the   forms  of  art,  and 


DENTON  J.  SNIDER  13625 

thus  to  create  beauty.  Architecture,  sculpture,  poetry,  spring 
at  once  and  together  to  a  height  which  they  have  hardly  since 
attained,  trying  to  express  the  lofty  consciousness  begotten  of 
heroic  action;  philosophy,  too,  followed;  but  chiefest  of  all,  the 
great  men  of  the  time,  those  plastic  shapes  in  flesh  and  blood, 
manifesting  the  perfect  development  and  harmony  of  mind  and 
body,  rise  in  Olympian  majesty,  and  make  the  next  hundred 
years  after  the  battle  the  supreme  intellectual  birth  of  the  ages; 
—  and  all  because  the  gods  fought  along  at  Marathon  and  must 
thereafter  be  revealed. 

But  let  us  descend  from  this  height,  for  we  cannot  stay  up 
here  all  day:  let  us  go  down  from  the  mound,  resuming  our 
joyous  sauntering  occupation ;  let  our  emotions,  still  somewhat 
exalted,  flow  down  quietly  and  mingle  once  more  with  the  soft 
pellucid  Marathonian  rill.  The  declining  sun  is  warning  us  that 
we  have  spent  the  greater  part  of  a  day  in  wandering  over  the 
plain,  and  in  sitting  on  the  shore  and  the  tumulus.  Let  us  still 
trace  the  bed  of  the  river  up  from  the  swamp:  everywhere  along 
its  bank  and  in  its  channel  can  be  seen  fragments  of  edifices. 
Here  are  ancient  bricks  with  mortar  still  clinging  to  them; 
there  is  the  drum  of  a  column  lying  in  the  sand  half  buried; 
pieces  of  ornamented  capitals  look  up  at  you  from  the  ground 
with  broken  smiles.  Remains  of  a  wall  of  carefully  hewn  stone 
speak  of  a  worthy  superstructure:  the  foundation  of  a  temple  of 
Bacchus  was  discovered  here  a  few  years  ago,  together  with  a 
curious  inscription  still  preserved  in  the  town.  The  fragments 
scattered  along  and  in  the  channel  for  half  a  mile  or  more  tell 
of  the  works  once  erected  on  this  spot  to  the  heroes  and  gods 
of  the  plain,  and  which  were  things  of  beauty.  The  traveler 
will  seek  to  rebuild  this  group  of  shrines  and  temples,  each  in 
its  proper  place  and  with  suitable  ornament;  he  will  fill  them 
with  white  images,  with  altars  and  tripods;  he  will  call  up  the  sur- 
ging crowd  of  merry  Greek  worshipers  passing  from  spot  to  spot 
at  some  festival. 

As  one  walks  slowly  through  the  fields  in  the  pleasant  sun,  a 
new  delight  comes  over  him  at  the  view  of  the  flowers  of  Mara- 
thon. Everywhere  they  are  springing  up  over  the  plaiii,  though 
it  be  January  still, —  many  of  them  and  of  many  kinds,  daisies, 
dandelions,  and  primroses, —  looking  a  little  different  from  what 
they  do  at  home,  yet  full  as  joyous.  The  most  beautiful  is  a 
kind  of   poppy   unknown   to  me  elsewhere;   so  let  me  call   it  the 


13626  DENTON   J.  SNIDER 

Marathonian  poppy.  In  most  cases  it  wraps  its  face  in  a  half- 
closed  calyx,  as  the  Greek  maiden  covers  forehead  and  chin  in 
her  linen  veil:  still  you  can  look  down  into  the  hood  of  leaves 
and  there  behold  sparkling  dark  eyes.  Some  of  the  flowers, 
however,  are  entirely  open,  some  only  in  bud  yet;  then  there  is 
every  variety  of  color, — red,  purple,  and  blue,  with  infinite  deli- 
cate shadings.  One  tarries  among  them  and  plays  after  having 
gone  through  the  earnest  battle;  he  will  stoop  down  and  pluck  a 
large  handful  of  them  in  order  to  arrange  them  in  groups  pass- 
ing into  one  another  by  the  subtlest  hues.  So,  after  being  in 
such  high  company,  one  gladly  becomes  for  a  time  a  child  once 
more  amid  the  Marathonian  poppies. 

But  will  this  city  [St.  Louis]  ever  mean  to  the  world  the 
thousandth  part  of  what  Marathon  means  ?  Will  it  ever  make  a 
banner  under  which  civilization  will  march  ?  Will  it  ever  create 
a  symbol  which  nations  will  contemplate  as  a  thing  of  beauty  and 
as  a  hope-inspiring  prophecy  of  their  destiny  ?  Will  it  rear  any 
men  to  be  exemplars  for  the  race  ?  Alas !  no  such  man  has  she 
yet  produced;  very  little  sign  of  such  things  is  here  at  present: 
we  are  not  a  symbol-making  people,  do  not  know  nor  care  what 
that  means;  our  ambition  is  to  make  canned  beef  for  the  race  — 
and  to  correct  the  census.  St.  Louis  has  some  fame  abroad  as  a 
flour  market,  but  she  is  likely  to  be  forgotten  by  ungrateful  man 
as  soon  as  he  has  eaten  his  loaf  of  bread  or  can  get  it  from 
elsewhere.  A  great  population  she  has  doubtless,  greater  than 
Athens  ever  had;  but  I  cannot  see,  with  the  best  good-will,  that 
in  the  long  run  there  is  much  difference  between  the  350,000 
who  are  here,  and  the  150,000  who  are  not  but  were  supposed 
to  be.  Marathon  River  is  often  a  river  without  water;  but  will 
turbid  Mississippi  with  her  thousands  of  steamboats  —  stop!  this 
strain  is  getting  discordant:  at  Marathon  should  be  heard  no 
dissonance,  least  of  all  the  dissonance  of  despair.  Yes,  there  is 
hope;  while  the  future  lasts  —  and  it  will  be  a  long  time  before 
that  ceases  —  there  is  hope.  The  Marathonian  catabothron  is 
certain  to  rise  here  yet,  with  many  other  catabothrons,  and  form 
with  native  rivers  a  new  stream  unheard  of  in  the  history  of  the 
world.  Who  of  us  has  not  some  such  article  of  faith  ?  When 
this  valley  has  its  milliard  of  human  beings  in  throbbing  activity 
over  its  surface,  we  all  of  us,  I  doubt  not,  shall  look  back  from 
some  serene  height  and  behold  them;  we  shall  then  see  that  so 
many  people  have  created  their  beautiful  symbol. 


13627 


SOCRATES 

(469  ?-399  B.  C.) 
BY   HERBERT   WEIR  SMYTH 

[reat  teachers  are  not  often  great  writers:  some  indeed  have 
written  nothing,  and  among  these  the  greatest  is  Socrates. 
If  the  qualities  of  his  genius  made  Socrates  a  teacher 
through  the  spoken,  not  through  the  written  word,  he  created  a  liter- 
ature in  which,  through  the  devotion  of  his  pupils,  his  message  to  the 
world  has  been  transmitted  to  us.  It  is  fortunate  that  Xenophon  and 
Plato  were  so  different  in  character  and  aptitudes.  If  the  historian 
was  incapable  of  grasping  the  full  significance  of  his  master's  search 
for  truth  and  its  transforming  power,  he  pictures  for  us  the  homelier 
:side  of  the  life  of  Socrates, —  his  practical  virtues,  his  humanity, — 
;and  defends  him  from  calumny  and  reproach.  In  the  larger  vision  of 
Plato  the  outlines  of  the  man  were  merged  into  the  figure  of  the  ideal 
\teacher.  To  disengage  with  certainty  the  man  Socrates  from  the 
(dialectician  into  whose  mouth  Plato  puts  his  own  transcendental  phi- 
losophy, is  beyond  our  powers;  but  in  the  pages  of  Xenophon,  un- 
illumined  indeed  by  Plato's  matchless  urbanity  and  grace,  we  have 
a  record  of  Socrates's  converstitions  that  bears  the  mark  of  verisimil- 
itude. 

The  life  of  Socrates  falls  in  a  period  of  the  history  of  thought 
when  the  speculations  of  a  century  and  more  had  arrived  at  the  hope- 
less conclusion  that  there  was  no  real  truth,  no  absolute  standard 
of  right  and  wrong,  no  difference  between  what  is  essential  and  what 
is  accidental ;  and  that  all  man  can  know  is  dependent  upon  sensa- 
tion, and  perception  through  the  senses.  But  the  position  of  Socrates 
in  history  is  not  to  be  understood  by  a  mere  statement  of  his  meth- 
ods, or  his  results  in  regenerating  philosophical  investigation. 

Born  in  469,  or  perhaps  471,  the  son  of  the  statuary  Sophroniscus 
and  Phasnarete  a  midwife,  he  received  the  education  of  the  Athenian 
youth  of  the  time  in  literature, —  which  embraced  chiefly  the  study 
of  Homer, —  in  music,  and  in  geometry  and  astronomy.  He  is  said  to 
have  tried  his  hand  for  a  time  at  his  father's  trade;  and  a  group  of 
the  Graces,  currently  believed  to  be  his  work,  was  extant  as  late  as 
the  second  century  A.  D.  Like  the  Parisian,  whose  world  is  bounded 
by  ths  boulevards,  Socrates  thought  Athens   world   enough   for  him. 


I 


628  SOCRATES 


He  remained  in  his  native  city  his  entire  life ;  unlike  the  Sophists, 
who  traveled  from  city  to  city  making  gain  of  their  wisdom.  On 
one  occasion  indeed  he  attended  the  games  at  Corinth ;  and  as  a  sol- 
dier underwent  with  fortitude  the  privations  of  the  campaign  at  Poti- 
dasa,  where  he  saved  the  life  of  Alcibiades,  whose  influence,  directly 
or  indirectly,  was  to  work  ruin  alike  to  Athens  and  his  master.  He 
was  engaged  in  the  battles  of  Delium  in  424  and  Amphipolis  in  422. 
His  life  was  by  preference  free  from  event.  Warned  by  the  deterrent 
voice  of  his  <' divine  sign,**  he  took  no  part  in  public  affairs  except 
when  he  was  called  upon  to  fulfill  the  ordinary  duties  of  citizenship. 
Until  his  trial  before  the  court  that  sentenced  him  to  death,  he  ap- 
peared in  a  public  capacity  on  only  two  occasions;  in  both  of  which 
he  displayed  his  lofty  independence  and  tenacity  of  purpose  in  the 
face  of  danger.  In  406,  withstanding  the  clamor  of  the  mob,  he  alone 
among  the  presidents  of  the  assembly  refused  to  put  to  vote  the 
inhuman  and  illegal  proposition  to  condemn  in  a  body  the  generals 
at  Arginusse ;  and  during  the  Reign  of  Terror  in  404  he  disobeyed 
the  incriminating  command  of  the  Thirty  Tyrants  to  arrest  Leon, 
whom  they  had  determined  to  put  to  death. 

He  seems  at  an  early  age  to  have  recoiled  from  speculations  as 
to  the  cause  and  constitution  of  the  physical  world;  believing  that 
they  dealt  with  problems  not  merely  too  deep  for  human  intellect  but 
sacred  from  man's  finding  out.  <^  Do  these  students  of  nature's  laws,'* 
he  indignantly  exclaimed,  <<  think  they  already  know  human  affairs 
well  enough,  that  they  begin  to  meddle  with  the  Divine  ?** 

To  Socrates  « the  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man.**  In  the 
market-place  he  found  material  for  investigation  at  once  more  tan- 
gible and  of  a  profounder  significance  than  the  atomic  theory  of 
Democritus.  <*  Know  thyself**  was  inscribed  on  the  temple  of  the 
god  of  Delphi;  and  it  was  Socrates's  conviction  that  a  ^Hife  without 
self-examination  was  no  life  at  all.**  Since  the  Delphian  oracle  de- 
clared him  to  be  the  wisest  of  men,  he  felt  that  he  had  a  Divine 
mission  to  make  clear  the  meaning  of  the  god,  and  to  seek  if  haply 
he  might  find  some  one  wiser  than  himself;  for  he  was  conscious  that 
he  knew  nothing. 

To  this  quest  everything  was  made  subordinate.  He  was  pos- 
sessed of  nothing,  for  he  had  the  faculty  of  indigence.  Fortunately, 
as  Renan  has  put  it,  all  a  Greek  needed  for  his  daily  sustenance  was 
a  few  olives  and  a  little  wine.  *<To  want  nothing,**  said  Socrates,  *^is 
Divine ;  to  want  as  little  as  possible  is  the  nearest  possible  approach 
to  the  Divine  life.**  Clad  in  shabby  garments,  which  sufficed  alike 
for  summer  and  winter,  always  barefoot  (a  scandal  to  Athenian  pro- 
priety), taking  money  from  no  man  so  as  not  to  ^'enslave  himself,** 
professing  with  his  "accustomed  irony**  to  be  unable  to  teach  anything 


SOCRATES  13029 

himself,  he  went  about  year  after  year,— in  the  market-place,  in 
the  gymnasium,  in  the  school,  —  asking  continually,  "What  is  piety? 
What  is  impiety  ?  What  is  the  honorable  and  the  base  ?  What  is 
the  just  and  the  unjust?  What  is  temperance  or  unsound  mind? 
What  is  the  character  fit  for  a  citizen  ?  What  is  authority  over 
men  ?  What  is  the  character  befitting  the  exercise  of  such  author- 
ity?" Questioning  men  of  every  degree,  of  every  mode  of  thought 
and  occupation,  he  discovered  that  each  and  all  of  the  poets,  the  poli- 
ticians, the  orators,  the  artists,  the  artisans,  thought  that  "because 
he  possessed  some  special  excellence  in  his  own  art,  he  was  him- 
self wisest  as  to  matters  of  another  and  a  higher  kind.'^  The  Athen- 
ian of  the  day  multiplied  words  about  equality,  virtue,  justice;  but 
when  examined  as  to  the  credentials  of  their  knowledge,  Socrates 
found  all  alike  ignorant.  Thus  it  was  that  he  discovered  the  pur- 
port of  the  divine  saying  —  others  thought  they  knew  something,  he 
knew  that  he  knew  nothing. 

The  Sophists  claimed  to  have  gained  wisdom,  which  they  taught 
for  a  price :  Socrates  only  claimed  to  be  a  lover  of  wisdom,  a  philos- 
opher. Though  he  continued  to  affect  ignorance,  in  order  to  con- 
found ignorance,  he  must  have  been  conscious  that  if  in  truth  he  was 
the  *' wisest  of  men,*^  he  had  a  heaven-attested  authority  for  leading 
men  to  a  right  course  of  thinking.  Only  by  confessing  our  ignor- 
ance, he  said,  and  by  becoming  learners,  can  we  reach  a  right  course 
of  thinking;  and  by  learning  to  think  aright,  according  to  his  intel- 
lectual view  of  ethics,  we  learn  to  do  well.  God  alone  possesses 
wisdom;  but  it  is  man's  duty  to  struggle  to  attain  to  knowledge, 
and  therewith  virtue.  For  virtue  is  knowledge,  and  sin  is  the  fruit 
of  ignorance.  Voluntary  evil  on  the  part  of  one  who  knows  what 
is  good,  is  inconceivable. 

In  his  search  for  knowledge,  Socrates  found  that  it  was  imperative 
to  get  clear  conceptions  of  general  notions.  These  he  attained  by 
the  process  of  induction. 

«Going  once,  too,  into  the  workshop  of  Cleito  the  statuary,  and  beginning 
to  converse  with  him,  he  said,  <  I  see  and  understand,  Cleito,  that  you  make 
figures  of  various  kinds,  runners  and  wrestlers,  pugilists  and  pancratiasts;  but 
how  do  you  put  into  your  statues  that  which  most  wins  the  minds  of  the 
beholders  through  the  eye  —  the  lifelike  appeiirance?*  As  Cleito  hesitated,  and 
did  not  immediately  answer,  Socrates  proceeded  to  ask,  <Do  you  make  your 
statues  appear  more  lifelike  by  assimilating  your  work  to  the  figures  of  the 
living  ?>  <Certainly,>  said  he.  <Do  you  not  then  make  your  figures  appear 
more  like  reality,  and  more  striking,  by  imitating  the  parts  of  the  body  that 
are  drawn  up  or  drawn  down,  compressed  or  spread  out,  stretched  or  relaxed, 
by  the  gesture  ?>  <  Undoubtedly,)  said  Cleito.  <And  the  representation  of 
the  passions  of  men  engaged  in  any  act,  does  it  not  excite  a  certain  pleasure 
in   the   spectators  ?>     <It  is   natural,  at   least,  that   it  should   be  so,>  said   he. 


13630 


SOCRATES 


<Must  you  not,  then,  copy  the  menacing  looks  of  combatants?  And  must  you 
not  imitate  the  countenance  of  conquerors,  as  they  look  joyful  ?>  <Assuredly,> 
said  he.  <A  statuary,  therefore, >  concluded  Socrates,  <must  express  the  work- 
ings of  the  mind  by  the  form.>»     (Xenophon,  in  the   <  Memorabilia. >) 

There  is  no  deadlier  weapon  than  the  terrible  cut-and-thrust  pro- 
cess of  cross-examination  by  which  the  great  questioner  could  reduce 
his  interlocutor  to  the  confession  of  false  knowledge.  Sometimes,  we 
must  confess,  Socrates  seems  to  have  altogether  too  easy  a  time  of 
it,  as  he  wraps  his  victim  closer  and  closer  in  his  toils.  If  we  tire 
of  the  men  of  straw  who  are  set  up  against  him,  and  our  fingers 
itch  to  take  a  hand  in  the  fight,  we  cannot  but  realize  that  the  process 
destructive  of  error  is  a  necessary  preliminary  to  the  constructive 
process  by  which  positive   truth  is  established. 

If  Greek  thought  was  saved  from  the  germs  of  disintegration 
by  Socrates's  recognition  of  the  certainty  of  moral  distinctions,  it  is 
his  incomparable  method  of  teaching  that  entitles  him  to  our  chief 
regard.  He  elicited  curiosity,  which  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom; 
he  had  no  stereotyped  system  of  philosophy  to  set  forth, —  he  only 
opened  up  vistas  of  truth;  he  stimulated,  he  did  not  complete,  inves- 
tigation. Hence  he  created,  not  a  school,  but  scholars;  who,  despite 
the  wide  diversity  of  their  beliefs,  drew  their  inspiration  from  a  com- 
mon source. 

If  his  fertility  of  resource,  his  wit  and  humor,  his  geniality,  his 
illustrations  drawn  from  common  life,  his  well-nigh  universal  sympa- 
thy, charmed  many,  the  significance  of  his  moral  teachings  inspired 
the  chosen  few.  Those  who  could  recover  from  the  shock  of  discov- 
ering that  their  knowledge  was  after  all  only  ignorance,  were  spurred 
by  his  obstinate  questionings  to  a  better  life.  He  delivered  their 
minds  of  the  truths  that  had  unconsciously  lain  in   them. 

With  his  wonted  art,  Plato  has  made  the  most  dissolute  of  Socra- 
tes's temporary  followers  the  chief  witness  to  his  captivating  elo- 
quence.    In  the  <  Banquet, *  Alcibiades  says:  — 

« I  shall  praise  Socrates  in  a  figure  which  will  appear  to  him  to  be  a  cari- 
cature; and  yet  I  do  not  mean  to  laugh  at  him,  but  only  to  speak  the  truth. 
I  say,  then,  that  he  is  exactly  like  the  masks  of  Silenus,  which  may  be  seen 
sitting  in  the  statuaries'  shops,  having  pipes  and  flutes  in  their  mouths;  and 
they  are  made  to  open  in  the  middle,  and  there  are  images  of  gods  inside 
them.     I  say  also  that  he  is  like  Marsyas  the  satyr. 

«And  are  you  not  a  flute-player?  That  you  are;  and  a  far  more  wonderful 
performer  than  Marsyas.  For  he  indeed  with  instruments  charmed  the  souls 
of  men  by  the  power  of  his  breath,  as  the  performers  of  his  music  do  still; 
for  the  melodies  of  Olympus  are  derived  from  the  teaching  of  Marsyas,  and 
these  —  whether  they  are  played  by  a  great  master  or  by  a  miserable  flute- 
girl  —  have  a  power  which  no  others  have, —  they  alone  possess  the  soul  and 


SOCRATES 


1363* 


reveal  the  wants  of  those  who  have  need  of  gods  and  mysteries,  because  they 
are  inspired.  But  you  produce  the  same  effect  with  the  voice  only,  and  dc 
not  require  the  flute;  that  is  the  difference  between  you  and  him.  When 
we  hear  any  other  speaker, —  even  a  veiy  good  one, —  his  words  produce  abso- 
lutely no  effect  upon  us- in  comparison;  whereas  the  very  fragments  of  you' 
and  your  words,  even  at  second-hand,  and  however  imperfectly  repeated, 
amaze  and  possess  the  souls  of  every  man,  woman,  and  child  who  comes 
within  hearing  of  them. 

« I  have  heard  Pericles  and  other  great  orators :  but  though  I  thought  that 
they  spoke  well,  I  never  had  any  similar  feeling;  my  soul  was  not  stirred 
by  them,  nor  was  I  angry  at  the  thought  of  my  own  slavish  state.  But  this 
Marsyas  has  often  brought  me  to  such  a  pass,  that  I  have  felt  as  if  I  could 
hardly  endure  the  life  which  I  am  leading  (this,  Socrates,  3'ou  admit) ;  and  1 
am  conscious  that  if  I  did  not  shut  my  ears  against  him,  and  fly  from  the 
voice  of  the  siren,  he  would  detain  me  until  I  grew  old  sitting  at  his  feet. 
For  he  makes  me  confess  that  I  ought  not  to  live  as  I  do, —  neglecting  the 
wants  of  my  own  soul,  and  busying  myself  with  the  concerns  of  the  Athen- 
ians ;  therefore  I  hold  my  ears  and  tear  myself  away  from  him.  And  he  is 
the  only  person  who  ever  made  me  ashamed, —  which  you  might  think  not  to 
be  in  my  nature;  and  there  is  no  one  else  who  does  the  same.  For  I  know 
that  I  cannot  answer  him,  or  say  that  I  ought  not  to  do  as  he  bids;  but 
when  I  leave  his  presence  the  love  of  popularity  gets  the  better  of  me.  And 
therefore  I  run  away  and  fly  from  him,  and  when  I  see  him  I  am  ashamed 
(of  what  I  have  confessed  to  him.  And  many  a  time  I  wish  that  he  were 
,de^d,  and  yet  I  know  that  I  should  be  much  more  sorry  than  glad  if  he 
•wert;  to  die:   so  that  I  am  at  my  wits'  end.» 

Socrates  must  have  seemed  in  very  truth  a  satyr  to  the  large  body 
of  Athenians  careless  of  his  -wiission.  How  could  they,  who  had  been 
taught  that  the  "  good,  is  fair''  and  that  the  "fair  is  good,"  believe 
that  good  should  issue  from  those  thick,  sensual  lips;  or  realize  that 
within  that  misshapen  body,  with  its  staring  eyes  and  upturned  nose 
with  outspread  nostrils,  there  resided  a  soul  disparate  to  its  covering  ? 
Surely  this  rude  creature  of  the  world  of  Pan  could  not  speak  the 
words  of  Divine  wisdom !  Then  too  his  eccentricities.  Like  Luther, 
he  combined  common-sense  with  mysticism.  He  would  remain  as 
if  in  a  trance  for  hours,  brooding  over  somp  problem  of  the  true  or 
good.  As  early  as  423,  Aristophanes  made  him  the  scapegoat  for 
his  detestation  of  the  natural  philosophers  and  of  the  Sophists,  who 
were  unsettling  all  traditional  belief. 

Strepsiades  —  But  who  hangs  dangling  in  the  basket  yonder? 

.Student —        Himsklf. 

^rcpsiadcs —  And  who's  Him.self? 

student —  Wliy,  Scxirates. 

Strepsiades  —  Ho,  Socrates!     Call  him,  you  fellow  —  call  loud. 

Student —        Call  him  yourself — I've  got  no  time  for  calling. 

\E.\it  hi-doors. 


13632  SOCRATES 

Strepsiades  —  Ho,  Socrates?    Sweet,  darling  Socrates! 

Socrates —        Why  callest  thou  me,  poor  creature  of  a  day? 

Strepsiades  —  First  tell  me,  pray,  what  are  you  doing  up  there  ? 

Socrates  —        I  walk  in  air,  and  contemplate  the  sun. 

Strepsiades  —  Oh,  that's  the  way  that  you  look  down  on  the  gods — • 

You  get  so  near  them  on  your  perch  there  —  eh  ? 
Socrates —        I  never  could  have  found  out  things  divine. 

Had  I  not  hung  my  mind  up  thus,  and  mixed 

My  subtle  intellect  with  its  kindred  air. 

The  ethical  inquirer  here  is  pilloried  by  the  caricaturist  for  the  very 
tendency  against  which  his  whole  life  was  a  protest.  When  in  399 
Socrates  was  brought  to  trial,  he  confesses  that  the  chief  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  proving  his  innocence  is  those  calumnies  of  his  **  old 
accusers*^;  for  even  if  Aristophanes  was  able  to  distinguish  between 
Socrates  and  the  Sophists,  he  did  not,  and  the  common  people  could 
not. 

The  indictment  put  forward  by  Meletus,  Anytus,  and  Lycon,  who 
were  merely  the  mouthpieces  of  hostile  public  opinion,  read  as  fol- 
lows :  — 

"  Socrates  offends  against  the  laws  in  not  paying  respect  to  those 
gods  whom  the  city  respects,  and  introducing  other  new  deities;  he 
also  offends  against  the  laws  in  corrupting  the  youth. *^ 

It  is  not  difficult  to  see  why  Socrates  provoked  a  host  of  enemies. 
Those  who,  like  Anytus,  felt  that  he  inflamed  their  sons  to  revolt 
against  parental  authority;  those  who  regarded  the  infamous  life  and 
treason  of  Alcibiades,  and  the  tyranny  of  Critias,  as  the  direct  result 
of  their  master's  teachings;  those  who  thought  him  the  gadfly  of  the 
market-place,  and  who  had  suffered  under  his  merciless  exposure  of 
their  sham  knowledge;  those  who  saw  in  his  objection  to  the  choice 
of  public  officers  by  lot,  a  menace  to  the  established  constitution, — 
all  these  felt  that  by  his  death  alone  could  the  city  be  rid  of  his  pes- 
tilential disputatiousness. 

For  his  defense,  Socrates  made  no  special  preparation.  «  My  whole 
life,>>  said  he,  <<has  be;en  passed  with  my  brief  in  view.  I  have 
shunned  evil  all  my  life;  —  that  I  think  is  the  most  honorable  way  in 
which  a  man  can  bestow  attention  upon  his  own  defense :  >>  words 
that  anticipate  those  spoken  on  a  still  more  memorable  occasion, — 
«But  when  they  shall  deliver  you  up,  take  no  thought  how  or  what 
ye  shall  speak.  *^ 

If  the  accusations  were  false,  the  trial  was  legal.  Against  the 
count  of  the  indictment  on  the  score  of  impiety,  Socrates  could  set 
his  reverence  for  the  gods.  His  daimonion  was  no  new  deity,  and 
it  had  spoken  to  him  from  his  youth  up.  He  had  discharged  the 
religious    duties    required    by    the    State;    he    even    believed    in    the 


SOCRATES  ,-5-- 

manifestations  of  the  gods  through  signs  and  oracles  when  human 
judgment  was  at  fault,  and  this  at  a  time  when  the  « enlightened » 
viewed  such  faith  with  contempt.  He  recognized  with  gratitude  the 
intelligent  purpose  of  the  gods  in  creating  a  world  of  beauty.  «  No 
one,»  says  Xenophon,  « ever  knew  of  his  doing  or  saying  anything 
profane  or  unholy. »  He  was  temperate,  brave,  upright,  endowed  with 
a  high  sense  of  honor.  Though  he  preserved  the  independence  of 
his  judgment,  he  had  been  loyal  to  the  existing  government.  A  less 
unbending  assertion  of  this  independence,  and  a  conciliatory  attitude 
toward  his  judges,  would  have  saved  Socrates  from  death.  But  he 
seems  to  have  courted  a  verdict  that  would  mark  him  as  the  «  first 
martyr  of  philosophy.*^ 

[Note. —  The  chief  ancient  authorities  for  the  life  and  teaching  of 
Socrates  are  Xenophon's  <  Memorabilia,'  or  Memoirs  of  the  philosopher, 
and  his  <  vSymposium  > ;  Plato's  <Apology,>  <Crito,>  and  parts  of  the 
<Phcn2d(r.*  Such  dialogues  as  the  <  Lysis,*  <Charmides,>  <  Laches,'  <  Pn> 
tagoras,'  <Euthyphro,*  deal  with  the  master's  conception  of  the  unity 
of  virtue  and  knowledge ;  and  are  called  **  Socratic  *>  because  they  are 
free  from  the  intrusion  of  features  that  are  specifically  Platonic,  such 
as  the  doctrine  of  the  Ideas,  and  the  tripartite  division  of  the  soul. 
The  ^Apology*  included  among  the  writings  of  Xenophon  is  probably 
spurious.  The  <  Life '  by  Diogenes  Laertius  is  an  ill-assorted  and  un- 
critical compilation,  filled  with  trivial  gossip.] 


VN2<;«--t^^2^5L-/  //ic-x*     KA^t^n^^/i^ 


SOCRATES   REFUSES   TO   ESCAPE   FROM  PRISON 
From  Plato's  <Crito> 

SOCRATES  —  Then  we  ought  not  to  retaliate  or  render  evil  for 
evil  to  any  one,  whatever  evil  we  may  have  suffered  from 
him.  But  I  would  have  you  consider,  Crito,  whether  you 
really  mean  what  you  are  saying.  For  this  opinion  has  never 
been  held,  and  never  will  be  held,  by  any  considerable  number  of 
persons;  and  those  who  arc  agreed  and  those  wlio  are  not  agreed 
upon  this  point  have  no  common  ground,  and  can  only  despise 
one  another  when  they  see  how  widely  they  differ.  Tell  me, 
then,  whether  you  agree  with  and  assent  to  my  first  principle, 
that  neither  injury  nor  retaliation  nor  warding  off  evil  by  evil  is 
ever  right.    And  shall  that  be  the  premise  of  our  argument  ?    Or 


13634  SOCRATES 

do  you  decline  and  dissent  from  this  ?  For  this  has  beeti  of  old 
and  is  still  my  opinion;  but  if  you  are  of  another  opinion,  let 
me  hear  what  you  have  to  say.  If,  however,  you  remain  oi  the 
same  mind  as  formerly,  I  will  proceed  to  the  next  step. 

Crito  —  You  may  proceed,  for  I  have  not  changed  my  mind. 

Socrates  —  Then  I  will  proceed  to  the  next  step,,  which  may 
be  put  in  the  form  of  a  question:  Ought  a  man  to  do  what  he 
admits  to  be  right,  or  ought  he  to  betray  the  right  ? 

Crito  —  He  ought  to  do  what  he  thinks  right. 

Socrates  —  But  if  this  is  true,  what  is  the  application?  In  leav- 
ing the  prison  against  the  will  of  the  Athenians,  do  I  wrong- 
any  ?  or  rather  do  I  wrong  those  whom  I  ought  least  to  wrong  > 
Do  I  not  desert  the  principles  which  were  acknowledged  by  us. 
to  be  just  ?     What  do  you  say  ? 

Crito — I  cannot  tell,  Socrates;  for  I  do  not  know. 

Socrates  —  Then  consider  the  matter  in  this  way:  Imagine 
that  I  am  about  to  play  truant  (you  may  call  the  proceeding  by 
any  name  which  you  like),  and  the  laws  and  the  government  come 
and  interrogate  me :  ^^  Tell  us,  Socrates,  '*  they  say,  ^*  what  are 
you  about  ?  are  you  going  by  an  act  of  yours  to  overturn  us  — 
the  laws  and  the  whole  State  —  as  far  as  in  you  lies?  Do  you 
imagine  that  a  State  can  subsist  and  not  be  overthrown,  in  which 
the  decisions  of  law  have  no  power,  but  are  set  aside  and  over- 
thrown by  individuals  ?  ^^  What  will  be  our  answer,  Crito,  to  these 
and  the  like  words  ?  Any  one,  and  especially  a  clever  rhetorician, 
will  have  a  good  deal  to  urge  about  the  evil  of  setting  aside  the 
law  which  requires  a  sentence  to  be  carried  out;  and  we  might 
reply,  "Yes;  but  the  State  has  injured  us  and  given  dn  unjust 
sentence.  *     Suppose  I  say  that  ? 

Crito  —  Very  good,  Socrates. 

Socrates  —  "And  was  that  our  agreement  with  you?'*  the  law 
would  say ;  "  or  were  you  to  abide  by  the  sentence  of  the  State  ?  '* 
And  if  I  were  to  express  astonishment  at  their  saying  this,  the 
law  would  probably  add:  "Answer,  Socrates,  instead  of  opening 
your  eyes:  you  are  in  the  habit  of  asking  and  answering  ques- 
tions. Tell  us  what  complaint  you  have  to  make  against  us  which 
justifies  you  in  attempting  to  destroy  us  and  the  State  ?  In  the 
first  place,  did  we  not  bring  you  into  existence  ?  Your  father 
married  your  mother  by  our  aid  and  begat  you.  Say  whether 
you  have  any  objection  to  urge  against  those  of  us  who  regulate 
marriage  ?  **     None,  I  should  reply.     "  Or  against  those  of  us  who 


(^^. 


SOCRATES  13635 

regulate  the  system  of  nurture  and  education  of  children  in  which 
3'ou  were  trained  ?  Were  not  the  laws  which  have  the  charge  of 
this,  right  in  commanding  your  father  to  train  you  in  music  and 
gymnastics  ? "  Right,  I  should  reply.  ^*  Well  then,  since  you  were 
brought  into  the  world  and  nurtured  and  educated  by  us,  can  you 
deny  in  the  first  place  that  you  are  our  child  and  slave,  as  your 
fathers  were  before  you  ?  And  if  this  is  true,  you  are  not  on 
equal  terms  with  us;  nor  can  you  think  that  you  have  a  right  to 
do  to  us  what  we  are  doing  to  you.  Would  you  have  any  right 
to  strike  or  revile  or  do  any  other  evil  to  a  father  or  to  your 
master,  if  you  had  one,  when  you  have  been  struck  or  reviled 
by  him,  or  received  some  other  evil  at  his  hands  ?  You  would 
not  say  this.  And  because  we  think  right  to  destroy  you,  do  you 
think  that  you  have  any  right  to  destroy  us  in  return,  and  your 
country  as  far  as  in  you  lies  ?  And  will  you,  O  professor  of  true 
virtue,  say  that  you  are  justified  in  this  ?  Has  a  philosopher  like 
you  failed  to  discover  that  our  country  is  more  to  be  valued,  and 
higher  and  holier  far,  than  mother  or  father  or  any  ancestor, 
and  more  to  be  regarded  in  the  eyes  of  the  gods  and  of  men 
of  understanding  ?  also  to  be  soothed  and  gently  and  reverently 
entreated  when  angry,  even  more  than  a  father,  and  if  not  per- 
suaded, obeyed  ?  And  when  we  are  punished  by  her,  whether 
with  imprisonment  or  stripes,  the  punishment  is  to  be  endured  in 
silence;  and  if  she  lead  us  to  wounds  or  death  in  battle,  thither 
we  follow  as  is  right;  neither  may  any  one  yield  or  retreat  or 
leave  his  rank,  but  whether  in  battle  or  in  a  court  of  law,  or  in 
any  other  place,  he  must  do  what  his  city  and  his  country  order 
him,  or  he  must  change  their  view  of  what  is  just:  and  if  he 
may  do  no  violence  to  his  father  or  mother,  much  less  may  he 
do  violence  to  his  country.*^  What  answer  shall  we  make  to  this, 
Crito  ?     Do  the  laws  speak  truly,   or  do  they  not  ? 

Crito  —  I  think  that  they  do. 

Socrates — Then  the  laws  will  say:  "Consider,  Socrates,  if  this 
is  true,  that  in  your  present  attempt  you  are  going  to  do  us 
wrong.  For  after  having  brought  you  into  the  world,  and  nur- 
tured and  educated  you,  and  given  )()U  and  every  other  citizen  a 
share  in  every  good  that  we  had  to  give,  wc  further  proclaim 
and  give  the  right  to  every  Athenian,  that  if  he  does  not  like 
us  when  he  has  come  of  age  and  has  seen  the  ways  of  the  city, 
and  made  our  acquaintance,  he  may  go  where  he  pleases  and 
take  his  goods  with  him;  and  none  of  us  laws  will  forbid  him  or 


13636 


SOCRATES 


interfere  with  him.  Any  of  you  who  does  not  Hke  us  and 
the  city,  and  who  wants  to  go  to  a  colony  or  to  any  other  city, 
may  go  where  he  likes,  and  take  his  goods  with  him.  But  he 
who  has  experience  of  the  manner  in  which  we  order  justice  and 
administer  the  State,  and  still  remains,  has  entered  into  an 
implied  contract  that  he  will  do  as  we  command  him.  And  he 
who  disobeys  us  is,  as  we  maintain,  thrice  wrong:  first,  because 
in  disobeying  us  he  is  disobeying  his  parents;  secondly,  because 
we  are  the  authors  of  his  education;  thirdly,  because  he  has  made 
an  agreement  with  us  that  he  will  obey  our  commands;  and  he 
neither  obeys  them  nor  convinces  us  that  our  commands  are 
wrong;  and  we  do  not  rudely  impose  them,  but  give  him  the 
alternative  of  obeying  or  convincing  us;  —  that  is  what  we  offer, 
and  he  does  neither.  These  are  the  sort  of  accusations  to  which, 
as  we  were  saying,'  you,  Socrates,  will  be  exposed  if  you  accom- 
plish your  intentions;  you,  above  all  other  Athenians.'*  Suppose 
I  ask,  Why  is  this  ?  they  will  justly  retort  upon  me  that  I  above 
all  other  men  have  acknowledged  the  agreement.  ^^  There  is  clear 
proof,  **  they  will  say,  ^^  Socrates,  that  we  and  the  city  were  not 
displeasing  to  you.  Of  all  Athenians  you  have  been  the  most 
constant  resident  in  the  city;  which,  as  you  never  leave,  you  maj' 
be  supposed  to  love.  For  you  never  went  out  of  the  city  eithei 
to  see  the  games, — except  once  when  you  went  to  the  Isthmus, 
—  or  to  any  other  place  unless  when  you  were  on  military  serv- 
ice; nor  did  you  travel  as  other  men  do.  Nor  had  you  any  curi- 
osity to  know  other  States  or  their  laws:  your  affections  did  not 
go  beyond  us  and  our  State;  we  were  your  special  favorites,  and 
you  acquiesced  in  our  government  of  you;  and  this  is  the  State 
in  which  you  begat  your  children,  which  is  a  proof  of  your  satis- 
faction. Moreover,  you  might  if  you  had  liked  have  fixed  the 
penalty  at  banishment  in  the  course  of  the  trial:  the  State  which 
refuses  to  let  you  go  now  would  have  let  you  go  then.  But  you 
pretended  that  you  preferred  death  to  exile,  and  that  you  were 
not  grieved  at  death.  And  now  you  have  forgotten  these  fine 
sentiments,  and  pay  no  respect  to  us  the  laws,  of  whom  you  are 
the  destroyer;  and  are  doing  what  only  a  miserable  slave  would 
do, —  running  away  and  turning  your  back  upon  the  compacts  and 
agreements  which  you  made  as  a  citizen.'* 


SOCRATES  13637 

SOCRATES   AND    EUTHYDEMUS 
From  Xenophon's  <  Memorabilia  > 

SOCRATES,  having  made  the  letters  as  he  proposed,  asked,  "  Does 
falsehood  then  exist  among-  mankind?**  **  It  does  assuredly,** 
replied  he. —  "Under  which  head  shall  we  place  it?**  "Un- 
der injustice,  certainly.  **  —  "  Does  deceit  also  exist  ?  **  "  Unques- 
tionably. ** —  "Under  which  head  shall  we  place  that?**  "Evidently 
under  injustice.  **  —  "  Does  mischievousness  exist  ?  "  "  Undoubt- 
edly.**—  "And  the  enslaving  of  men?**  "That  too  prcv^ails. **  — 
"And  shall  neither  of  these  things  be  placed  by  us  under  justice, 
Euthydemus  ?  **  "It  would  be  strange  if  they  should  be,'*  said 
he.  "But,**  said  Socrates,  "if  a  man,  being  chosen  to  lead  an 
army,  should  reduce  to  slavery  an  unjust  and  hostile  people, 
should  we  say  that  he  committed  injustice?**  "No,  certainly,** 
replied  he. —  "Should  we  not  rather  say  that  he  acted  justly?** 
"Indisputably,**  —  "And  if,  in  the  course  of  the  war  with  them, 
he  should  practice  deceit?**  "That  also  would  be  just,**  said  he. 
— "And  if  he  should  steal  and  carry  off  their  property,  would  he 
not  do  what  was  just?**  "Certainly,**  Said  Euthydemus;  "but  I 
thought  at  first  that  you  asked  these  questions  only  with  reference 
to  our  friends.**  "Then,**  said  Socrates,  "all  that  we  have  placed 
under  the  head  of  injustice,  we  must  also  place  under  that  of  just- 
ice ?  **  "It  seems  so,**  replied  Euthydemus.  "Do  you  agree,  then,** 
continued  Socrates,  "  that  htLving  so  placed  them,  we  should  make 
a  new  distinction, —  that  it  is  just  to  do  such  things  with  regard 
to  enemies,  but  unjust  to  do  them  with  regard  to  friends,  and 
that  towards  his  friends  our  general  should  be  as  guileless  as 
possible?**     "By  all  means,**  replied  Euthydemus. 

*^Well,  then,**  said  Socrates,  "if  a  general,  seeing  his  army 
dispirited,  should  tell  them,  inventing  a  falsehood,  that  auxiliaries 
were  coming,  and  should  by  that  invention  check  the  despond- 
ency of  his  troops,  under  which  head  should  we  place  sucli  ;in 
act  of  deceit?**  "It  aj^pears  to  me,**  said  Euthydemus,  "  tliat 
we  must  place  it  under  justice.*'  —  "And  if  a  father,  wlien  liis  S(m 
requires  medicine  and  refuses  to  take  it,  should  deceive  him,  and 
give  him  the  medicine  as  ordinary  food,  and  by  adopting  such 
deception  should  restore  him  to  health,  under  which  head  must 
we  place  such  an  act  of  deceit  ?  **  "  It  appears  to  me  that  we 
must  put  it  under  the  same  head.**  —  "And  if  a  person,  when  his 
friend  was   in   despondency,   should,   through    fear    that   he    might 


13638 


SOCRATES 


kill  himself,  steal  or  take  away  his  sword,  or  any  other  weapon, 
under  which  head  must  we  place  that  act  ?  *^  "  That,  assuredly, 
we  must  place  under  justice.*^  —  ^^You  say,  then, *^  said  Socrates, 
*'that  not  even  towards  our  friends  must  we  act  on  all  occasions 
without  deceit?"  **We  must  not  indeed,*^  said  he;  <<for  I  retract 
what  I  said  before,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  do  so. "  "  It  is 
indeed  much  better  that  you  should  be  permitted,"  said  Socrates, 
"  than  that  you  should  not  place  actions  on  the  right  side.  But 
of  those  who  deceive  their  friends  in  order  to  injure  them  (that 
we  may  not  leave  even  this  point  unconsidered),  which  of  the 
two  is  the  more  unjust,  —  he  who  does  so  intentionally  or  he 
who  does  so  involuntarily?"  ^'Indeed,  Socrates,"  said  Euthyde- 
mus,  "  I  no  longer  put  confidence  in  the  answers  which  I  give ; 
for  all  that  I  said  before  appears  to  me  now  to  be  quite  different 
from  what  I  then  thought:  however,  let  me  venture  to  say  that 
he  who  deceives  intentionally  is  more  unjiist  than  he  who  deceives 
involuntarily  ? " 

"  Does  it  appear  to  you,  then,  that  there  is  a  way  of  learning 
and  knowing  what  is  just,  as  there  is  of  learning  and  knowing 
how  to  read  and  write  ? "  "I  think  there  is. "  —  ^*And  which 
should  you  consider  the  better  scholar,  him  who  should  purposely 
write  or  read  incorrectly,  or  him  who  should  do  so  unawares  ?  " 
^*  Him  who  should  do  so  purposely;  for  whenever  he  pleased, 
he  would  be  able  to  do  both  correctly. "  — "  He  therefore  that 
purposely  writes  incorrectly  may  be  a  good  scholar,  but  he  who 
does  so  involuntarily  is  destitute  of  scholarship  ? "  "  How  can  it 
be  otherwise?"  —  *^And  whether  does  he  who  lies  and  deceives 
intentionally  know  what  is  just,  or  he  who  does  so  unawares?" 
"  Doubtless  he  who  does  so  intentionally. "  — "  You  therefore  say 
that  he  who  knows  how  to  write  and  read  is  a  better  scholar 
than  he  who  does  not  know  ? "  ^*  Yes. "  —  "And  that  he  who 
knows  what  is  just  is  more  just  than  he  who  does  not  know  ?  " 
"  I  seem  to  say  so ;  but  I  appear  to  myself  to  say  this  I  know 
not  how."  —  "But  what  would  you  think  of  the  man  who,  wish- 
ing to  tell  the  truth,  should  never  give  the  same  account  of  the 
same  thing,  but  in  speaking  of  the  same  road,  should  say  at  one 
time  that  it  led  towards  the  east,  and  at  another  towards  the 
west,  and  in  stating  the  result  of  the  same  calculation,  should 
sometimes  assert  it  to  be  greater  and  sometimes  less, — what,  I 
say,  would  you  think  of  such  a  man  ? "  "  It  would  be  quitQ  clear 
that  he  knew  nothing  of  what  he  thought  he  knew.  ^* 


SOCRATES  J  36395 

<'  Do  you  know  any  persons  called  slave-like  ?  '>  "I  do.  '*  — 
«  Whether  for  their  knowledge  or  their  ignorance  ?  "  «  For  their 
ignorance,  certainly. »  — «  Is  it  then  for  their  ignorance  of  working 
in  brass  that  they  receive  this  appellation  ?  '*  «  Not  at  all.  **  —  *<  Is 
it  for  their  ignorance  of  the  art  of  building  ? "  "  Nor  for  that. "  — 
"  Or  for  their  ignorance  of  shoemaking  ?  "  «  Not  on  any  one  of 
these  accounts;  for  the  contrary  is  the  case,  as  most  of  those  who 
know  such  trades  are  servile."  —  "Is  this,  then,  an  appellation  of 
those  who  are  ignorant  of  what  is  honorable,  and  good,  and 
just?**  **  It  appears  so  to  me.*'  —  **  It  therefore  becomes  us  to 
exert  ourselves  in  every  way  to  avoid  being  like  slaves.**  "But, 
by  the  gods,  Socrates,**  rejoined  Euthydemus,  "I  firmly  believed 
that  I  was  pursuing  that  course  of  study  by  which  I  should,  as. 
I  expected,  be  made  fully  acquainted  with  all  that  was  proper 
to  be  known  by  a  man  striving  after  honor  and  virtue;  but 
now,  how  dispirited  must  you  think  I  feel,  when  I  see  that  with 
all  my  previous  labor,  I  am  not  even  able  to  answer  a  question 
about  what  I  ought  most  of  all  to  know,  and  am  acquainted  with 
no  other  course  which  I  may  pursue  to  become  better  I  ** 


DUTY   OF    POLITICIANS   TO    QUALIFY   THEMSELVES 
From  Xenophon's  < Memorabilia* 

«  ¥T  IS  plain,  Glaucon,  thar  if  you  wish  to  be  honored,  you  must 
1  benefit  the  State.**  "Certainly,**  replied  Glaucon.  "Then,** 
said  Socrates,  ..."  inform  us  with  what  pro- 
ceeding you  will  begin  to  benefit  the  State  ?  .  .  .  As,  if  you 
wished  to  aggrandize  the  family  of  a  friend,  you  would  endeavor 
to  make  it  richer,  tell  me  whether  you  will  in  like  manner  also 
endeavor  to  make  the  State  richer?**  "Assuredly,**  said  he. — 
"  Would  it  then  be  richer  if  its  revenues  were  increased  ?  ** — "  That 
is  at  least  probable,**  said  Glaucon.  "Tell  me  then,**  proceeded 
Socrates,  "from  what  the  revenues  of  the  State  arise,  and  what 
is  their  amount;  for  you  have  doubtless  considered,  in  order  that 
if  any  of  them  fall  short,  you  may  make  up  the  deficiency,  and 
that  if  any  of  them  fail,  you  may  procure  fresh  supplies.  **  "  Tlicse 
matters,  by  Jupiter,**  replied  Glaucon,  "I  have  not  considered.** 
"Well  then,'*  said  Socrates,  .  .  .  "tell  me  at  least  the  annual 
expenditure  of  the  State;  for  \ou  undoubtedly  mean  to  retrench 
whatever  is  superfluous  in  it."  "Indeed,**  replied  Glaucon,  "I 
have   not   yet   had   time    to   turn   my   attention    to   that   subject.* 


13640 


SOCRATES 


"Then,'^  said  Socrates,  *^we  will  put  off  making-  our  State  richer 
for  the  present;  for  how  is  it  possible  for  him  who  is  ignorant 
of  its  expenditure  and  its  income  to  manage  those  matters  ?  .  .  . 
Tell  us  the  strength  of  the  country  by  land  and  sea,  and  next  that 
of  our  enemies.  **  ^^  But,  by  Jupiter,  *'  exclaimed  Glaucon,  "  I  should 
not  be  able  to  tell  you  on  the  moment,  and  at  a  word.*^  "Well 
then,  if  you  have  it  written  down,**  said  Socrates,  "bring  it;  for 
I  should  be  extremely  glad  to  hear  what  it  is. "  "  But  to  say 
the  truth,**  replied  Glaucon,  "I  have  not  yet  written  it  down.** 
"  We  will  therefore  put  off  considering  about  war  for  the  pres- 
ent,** said  Socrates.  .  .  .  "You  propose  a  vast  field  for  me,** 
observed  Glaucon,  "  if  it  will  be  necessary  for  me  to  attend  to 
such  subjects.  **  "  Nevertheless,  **  proceeded  Socrates,  "  a  man  can- 
not order  his  house  properly,  unless  he  ascertains  all  that  it 
requires,  and  takes  care  to  supply  it  with  everything  necessary; 
but  since  the  city  consists  of  more  than  ten  thousand  houses, 
and  it  is  difficult  to  provide  for  so  many  at  once,  how  is  it  that 
you  have  not  tried  to  aid  one  first  of  all?  —  say  that  of  your 
uncle,  for  it  stands  in  need  of  help.  **  .  .  .  "  But  I  would  im- 
prove my  uncle's  house,**  said  Glaucon,  "if  he  would  only  be  per- 
suaded by  me.**  "Then,**  resumed  Socrates,  "  when  you  cannot 
persuade  your  uncle,  do  you  expect  to  make  all  the  Athenians, 
together  with  your  uncle,  yield  to  your  arguments  ?  .  .  .  Do 
you  not  see  how  dangerous  it  is  for  a  person  to  speak  of,  or 
undertake,  what  he  does  not  understand  ?  ...  If  therefore  you 
desire  to  gain  esteem  and  reputation  in  your  country,  endeavor 
to  succeed  in  gaining  a  knowledge  of  what  you  wish  to  do.** 


BEFORE   THE   TRIAL 

From  Xenophon's  <  Memorabilia  > 

HERMOGENES  son  of  Hippouicus  .  .  .  said  that  after  Meletus 
had  laid  the  accusation  against  him,  hie  heard  him  speaking 
on  any  subject  rather  than  that  of  his  trial,  and  remarked 
to  him  that  he  ought  to  consider  what  defense  he  should  make; 
but  that  he  said  at  first,  "  Do  I  not  appear  to  you  to  have  passed 
my  whole  life  meditating  on  that  subject  ?  **  and  then,  when  he 
asked  him  "  How  so  ?  **  he  said  "  he  had  gone  through  life  doing 
nothing  but  considering  what  was  just  and  what  unjust,  doing 
the  just  and  abstaining  from  the  unjust;  which  he  conceived 
to   be   the    best    meditation    for   his   defense.**     Hermogenes    said 


SOCRATES 


13641 


again,  "But  do  you  not  see,  Socrates,  that  the  judges  at  Athens 
have  already  put  to  death  many  innocent  persons,  on  account  of 
being  offended  at  their  language,  and  have  allowed  many  that  , 
were  guilty  to  escape?**  "But,  by  Jupiter,  Hermogenes,"  replied 
he,  "  when  I  was  proceeding,  awhile  ago,  to  study  my  address  to 
the  judges,  the  daemon  testified  disapprobation.'*  "You  say  what 
is  strange,"  rejoined  Hermogenes.  "And  do  you  think  it 
strange,  **  inquired  Socrates,  "  that  it  should  seem  better  to  the 
divinity  that  I  should  now  close  my  life  ?  Do  you  not  know  that 
down  to  the  present  time,  I  would  not  admit  to  any  man  that  he 
has  lived  either  better  or  with  more  pleasure  than  myself  ?  for  I 
consider  that  those  live  best  who  study  best  to  become  as  good 
as  possible;  and  that  those  live  with  most  pleasure  who  feel  the 
most  assurance  that  they  are  daily  growing  better  and  better. 
This  assurance  I  have  felt,  to  the  present  day,  to  be  the  case 
with  respect  to  myself;  and  associating  with  other  men,  and 
comparing  myself  Avith  others,  I  have  always  retained  this  opinion 
respecting  myself:  and  not  only  I,  but  my  friends  also,  main- 
tain a  similar  feeling  with  regard  to  me ;  not  because  they  love 
me  (for  those  who  love  others  may  be  thus  affected  towards 
the  objects  of  their  love),  but  because  they  think  that  while  they 
associated  with  me  they  became  greatly  advanced  in  virtue.  If  I 
shall  live  a  longer  period,  perhaps  I  shall  be  destined  to  sustain 
the  evils  of  old  age,  to  find  my  sight  and  hearing  weakened,  to 
feel  my  intellect  impaired,  to  become  less  apt  to  learn  and  more 
forgetful,  and  in  fine,  to  grow  inferior  to  others  in  all  those 
qualities  in  which  I  was  once  superior  to  them.  If  I  should  be 
insensible  to  this  deterioration,  life  would  not  be  worth  retaining; 
and  if  I  should  feel  it,  how  could  I  live  otherwise  than  with  less 
profit,  and  with  less  comfort  ?  If  I  am  to  die  unjustly,  my  death 
will  be  a  disgrace  to  those  who  unjustly  kill  me;  for  if  injustice 
is  a  disgrace,  must  it  not  be  a  disgrace  to  do  anything  unjustly  ? 
But  what  disgrace  will  it  be  to  me,  that  others  could  not  decide 
or  act  justly  with  regard  to  me  ?  Of  tlic  men  who  liavc  lived 
before  me,  I  see  that  the  estimation  left  among  posterity  with 
regard  to  such  as  have  done  wrong,  and  such  as  have  suffered 
wrong,  is  by  no  means  similar;  and  I  know  tliat  I  also,  if  I  now 
die,  shall  obtain  from  mankind  far  different  consideration  from 
that  which  they  will  pay  to  those  who  take  my  life:  for  1  know 
they  will  always  bear  witness  to  me  that  I  have  never  wronged 
any  man,  or  rendered  any  man  less  virtuous,  but  that  I  have 
alwavs  endeavored  to  make  those  better  who  conversed  with  me.'* 


13642 


SOLON 

(638P-559?  B.  C.) 

►  OETRY  is  older  than  prose.  Familiar  as  this  assertion'  is,  it  yet 
rings  like  a  paradox,  and  is  still  often  received  with  incre- 
dulity. Indeed,  it  needs  exposition,  if  not  qualification.  Of 
course  the  rude  beginnings  of  human  speech  —  whatever  their  origin 
—  were  not  rhythmical  in  any  high  artistic  sense.  But  as  soon  as 
men  invoked  the  aid  of  <*  Memory,  mother  of  the  Muses,"  when  they 
wished  to  fix  firmly,  in  the  mind  of  the  individual  or  of  the  clan,  some 
basic  principle  of  justice,  some  heroic  exploit,  some  tragic  incident, — 

then  a  regular  recurrent  movement  of  lan- 
guage, effectively  accompanied  by  drum  or 
foot  beat,  would  almost  instinctively  be 
sought  and  found.  Hence  the  early  and 
ail-but  universal  rise  of  the  popular  bal- 
lad, the   ^*  folk-song. " 

That  two  great  masses  of  hexameter 
verse,  and  naught  else,  crossed  successfully 
the  gulf  into  which  the  Homeric  civiliza- 
tion fell,  is  not  perhaps  so  strange.  Simi- 
larly a  Nibelungenlied,  the  Sagas,  the  Lays 
of  the  Troubadours,  float  to  us,  bringing 
almost  the  only  distinct  tidings  from  phases 
of  life  else  utterly  sunken  and  forgotten. 
But  when  the  g^ave  practical  problems  of  civic  organization  and 
foreign  war  were  first  effectively  debated  in  the  Athens  of  Solon,  it 
does  strike  us  with  surprise,  that  even  the  great  lawgiver  habitually 
<<  recited  a  poem.*^  The  dominant  influence  of  Homeric  epic  doubt- 
less aided  largely  here  also.  There  are  few  loftier  or  stronger  ora- 
tions left  us,  even  by  the  ten  orators  of  the  canon,  than  the  speeches 
in  which  Achilles  justifies  his  withdrawal  from  the  war,  or  Priam 
pleads  for  mercy  toward  Hector  dead.  Then  too,  even  this  ruder 
•early  Athenian  folk  can  have  been  no  ordinary  race  of  tradesmen 
'or  farmers.  Many  generations  of  artistic  growth  must  have  preceded 
.^schylus  and  Phidias.  Their  language  itself  is  sufiicient  evidence 
of  a  shaping  and  molding  instinct  pervading  a  whole  people.  Indeed, 
that  language  is  already  the  plastic  material  waiting  for  the  poet; 
just  as  the  melodious  Italian  speech  performs  beforehand  for  the 
improvisator  more  than  half  his  task. 


Solon 


SOLON  ,.(^^^ 

Moreover,  even  the  prose  of  Demosthenes  and  his  rivals  is  itself 
no  less  truly  rhythmical.  It  is  subject  to  euphonic  law  which  it 
easily  obeys,  and  of  which  — like  great  poetry  — it  makes  a  glorious 
ornament  instead  of  a  fetter. 

Solon's  elegies,  then,  are  poetical  in  form,  largely  because  artistic 
prose  was  not  yet  invented,  and  because  Solon  wished  his  memora- 
ble words  to  be  preserved  in  the  memory  of  his  Athenians.  They 
are  not  creative  and  imaginative  poetry  at  all.  Full  of  sound  ethical 
teaching,  shot  through  by  occasional  graces  of  phrase  and  fancy, 
warming  to  enthusiasm  on  the  themes  of  patriotism  and  pietv.  they 
still  remain  at  best  in  that  borderland  where  a  rhymed  satire  by  Dr. 
Johnson  or  a  versified  essay  of  Pope  must  also  abide.  Nearly  every- 
thing they  offer  us  could  have  been  as  well  and  effectively  said  out- 
side the  forms  of  verse.  This  is  the  just  and  final  test  of  the  poet's 
gold,  but  how  much,  even  of  what  we  prize,  would  bear  that  test 
without  appreciable   loss  ? 

Among  creators  of  constitutions,  Solon*  deservedly  holds  a  very 
high  —  perhaps  the  highest  —  place.  His  first  public  proposal,  indeed. 
was  one  to  which  he  could  hope  to  rally  the  support  of  all  classes: 
the  reconquest  of  the  lovely  island  of  Salamis.  lying  close  to  the 
Attic  shores,  and  destined  to  give  its  name  to  the  proudest  day  in 
Athenian  annals.  With  Spartan  help  it  was  actually  wrested  again 
from  Megara. 

This  success  hastened  the  selection  of  Solon  as  mediator  between 
the  bitterly  hostile  factions  of  a  people  on  the  verge  of  civil  war. 
By  the  desperate  remedy  of  a  depreciated  coinage  the  debtor  class 
was  relieved.  Imprisonment"^ or  enslavement  of  innocent  debtors  was 
abolished.  Solon's  political  reforms  left  the  fulcrum  of  power,  at 
least  temporarily,  among  the  wealthier  and  landed  classes;  and  tended 
at  any  rate  to  educate  the  common  people  to  wield  wisely  that  civic 
supremacy  which  he  may  have  foreseen  to  be  inevitably  theirs  in 
subsequent  generations. 

The  story  of  Solon's  prolonged  voluntary  exile  —  in  order  to  cut  off 
any  proposals  for  further  change  while  his  institutions  endured  the 
test  of  years  —  may  be  pure  invention.  Certainly  his  famous  meet- 
ing with  Croesus  of  Lydia,  at  the  height  of  that  monarch's  power. 
must  be  given  up.  Solon  died  before  Croesus  can  have  become  lord 
of  Western  Asia.  On  the  other  hand,  his  fearless  disapproval  of  his 
young  kinsman,  the  ''tyrant"  Pisistratus,  is  at  least  probable.  Mis 
answer  when  asked  what  made  him  thus  fearless:  —  "Old  age!'*  — 
reminds  us  of  Socrates.  Solon's  larger  measures  outlived  the  too 
aggressive  protectorate  of  Pisistratus,  and  remained  the  permanent 
basis  of  the  Athenian  constitution.  The  tolerant,  genial,  self-forgetful, 
and  fearless  character  of  the  man  was  a  legacy  hardly  less  precious 
to  his  countrymen;  and   they  were   nowise   ungrateful  to  his  memory. 


.3C44  '°'-°'' 

Solon's  poetry  comes  to  ns  almost  wholly  in  the  elegiac  couplet. 
This  variation  on  the  hexameter  was  the  first  invented  form  of 
stanza,  and  appears  to  have  been  hit  upon  in  the  seventh  century 
B.  C.  It  had  for  a  time  almost  as  many-sided  currency  as  our  own 
heroic  couplet  or  rhymed  pentameter;  but  was  soon  displaced  in 
great  degree  by  the  iambic  trimeter,  which,  like  our  ^*  blank  verse," 
was  extremely  close  to  the  average  movement  of  a  colloquial  prose 
sentence.  This  latter  rhythm  (which  is  also  used  by  Solon)  became 
the  favorite  form,  in  particular,  for  the  d'^logue  of  Attic  drama. 
Hence,  even  in  the  fifth  century,  both  hexameter  proper  and  the  ele- 
giac had  already  come  to  be  somewhat  archaic  and  artificial.  This 
is  still  truer  of  such  verse  in  Latin;  though  Ovid  wears  the  bonds 
of  elegiac  with  consummate  ease  and  grace.  In  modern  speech  it  is 
ail-but  impossible.  Longfellow  composed,  in  his  later  years,  clever 
renderings  from  several  of  Ovid's  ^Tristia^  but  the  best  isolated  ex- 
amples are  Clough's  preludes  to  the  < Amours  de  Voyage,  >  especially 
the  verses  on  the  undying  charm  of  Rome:  — 

«Is  it  illusion  or  not  that  attracteth  the  pilgrim  transalpine. 
Brings  him  a  dullard  and  dunce  hither  to  pry  and  to  stare? 
Is  it  illusion  or  not  that  allures  the  barbarian  stranger. 
Brings  him  with  gold  to  the  shrine,  brings  him  in  arms  to  the  gate?» 

But  he  would  be  a  bold  adventurer  who  would  attempt  to  make 
our  Anglo-Saxon  speech  dance  in  this  measure,  while  fast  bound  to 
the  practical  prosaic  ideas  of  Solon's  political  harangues! 

There  is  no  satisfactory  annotation  or  translation  of  Solon's  frag- 
ments. They  have  been  somewhat  increased  by  citations  in  the 
recently  discovered  Aristotelian  < Constitution  of  Athens';  and  would 
make  a  fruitful  subject  for  a  monograph,  in  which  poetical  taste, 
knowledge  of  history,  and  philological  acumen,  might  all  work  in 
harmony. 

[Note.— The  essentially  prosaic  character  of  Solon's  thought  makes  him 
doubly  ineffective  in  translation.  He  seems  to  be  hardly  represented  at  all 
in  English  versions.  Neither  of  the  experiments  here  appended  satisfies  the 
translator  himself.  Solon's  iambics  are  not  quite  so  slow  and  prose-like  as  our 
« blank  verse.»  On  the  other  hand,  the  Omar-like  quatrain  into  which  Mr. 
Newcomer  has  fallen  is  both  swifter  and  more  ornate  than  the  unapproachable 
elegiac  couplet  of  the  Greeks.] 

DEFENSE   OF   HIS   DICTATORSHIP 

MY  WITNESS  in  the  court  of  Time  shall  be 
The  mighty  mother  of  Olympian  gods, 
The  dusky  Earth,  — grateful  that  I  plucked  up 
The  boundary  stones  that  were  so  thickly  set; 


SOLON 


13645 


So  she,  enslaved  before,  is  now  made  free. 
To  Athens,  too,  their  god-built  native  town. 
Many  have  I  restored  that  had  been  sold. 
Some  justly,  some  unfairly;   some  again 
Perforce  through  death  in  exile.     They  no  more 
Could  speak  our  language,  wanderers  so  long. 
Others,  who  shameful  slavery  here  at  home 
Endured,  in  terror  at  their  lords'  caprice, 
I  rendered  free  again. 

This  in  my  might 
I  did,  uniting  right  and  violence; 
And  what  I  had  promised,  so  I  brought  to  pass. 
For  base  and  noble  equal  laws  I  made, 
Securing  justice  promptly  for  them  both. — 
Another  one  than  I,  thus  whip  in  hand, 
An  avaricious  evil-minded  man. 

Would  not  have  checked  the  folk,  nor  left  his  post 
Till  he  had  stolen  the  rich  cream  away ! 

Translated  for  <  A  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature  >  by  W.  C.  Lawton. 


SOLON   SPEAKS    HIS   MIND   TO   THE   ATHENIANS 

NEVER  shall  this  our  city  fall  by  fate 
Of  Zeus  and  the  blest  gods  from  her  estate. 
So  noble  a  warder,  Pallas  Athena,  stands 
With  hands  uplifted  at  the  city's  gate. 

But  her  own  citizens  do  strip  and  slay. 
Led  by  the  folly  of  their  hearts  astray, 

And  the  unjust  temper  of  her  demagogues, — 
Whose  pride  will  tumble  to  its  fall  some  day. 

For  they  know  not  to  hold  in  check  their  greed, 
Nor  soberly  on  the  spread  feast  to  feed; 

But  still  by  lawless  deeds  enrich  themselves. 
And  spare  not  for  the  gods'  or  people's  need. 

They  take  but  a  thief's  count  of  thine  and  mine; 
They  care  no  whit  for  Justice's  holy  shrine. — 

Who  sits  in  silence,  knowing  what  things  are  done. 
Yet  in  the  end  brings  punishment  condign. 

See  this  incurable  sore  the  State  consume ! 
Oh,  rapid  are  her  strides  to  slavery's  doom. 

Who  stirs  up  civil  strife  and  sleeping  war 
That  cuts  down  many  a  youiig  man  in  his  bloom. 


15646 


SOLON 

Such  are  the  evils  rife  at  home*;   while  lo, 
To  foreign  shores  in  droves  the  poor-folk  go, 

Sold,  and  perforce  bound  with  disfiguring  chains, 
And  knowing  all  the  shame  that  bondsmen  know. 

So  from  the  assembly-place  to  each  fireside 

The  evil  spreads;   and  though  the  court-doors  bide 

Its  bold  assault,  over  the  wall  it  leaps 
And  finds  them  that  in  inmost  chambers  hide. — 

Thus  to  the  Athenians  to  speak,  constrains 

My  soul :   111  fares  the  State  where  License  reigns ; 

But  Law  brings  order  and  concordant  peace, 
And  fastens  on  the  unjust,  speedy  chains. 

She  tames,  and  checks,  and  chastens;  blasts  the  bud 
Of  springing  folly;   cools  the  intemperate  blood; 

Makes  straight  the  crooked;  —  she  draws  after  her 
All  right  and  wisdom  like  a  tide  at  flood. 

Translated  for  <A  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature  >  by 

A.  G.  Newcomer 


TWO    FRAGMENTS 

I  GAVE  the  people  freedom  clear  — 
But  neither  flattery  nor  fear; 
I  told  the  rich  and  noble  race 
To  crown  their  state  with  modest  grace: 
And  placed  a  shield  in  cither's  hand, 
Wherewith  in  safety  both  might  stand. 

The  people  love  their  rulers  best 
When  neither  cringed  to  nor  opprest. 

From  an  article  on   <  Greek   Elegy  >  in   British   Quarterly  Review,  Vol.  xlviii.» 

page  87 


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